The Irish Connection - America Bound
by The Pash
Summary: I own nothing. These wonderful characters belong to the BBC, Gatiss, Moffet et al. This story continues on from where 'The Irish Connection' left off. You should probably read that one first for context. I am not going to say how many chapters it will have as I was so far off the last time! I hope you enjoy it.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Molly stared out of the window of the unmarked car as they flew along the quiet motorway, whisking her further and further away from him, from Sherlock. She struggled to remain calm, not to get upset and make a show of herself in front of these strange men. The best way to manage that was not to think about him; certainly not to think about what he was doing or how he was feeling right now. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them back furiously. She realised that she was also very scared. She had no idea who these men were or where she was going. She knew she was safe because Sherlock and Mycroft had let her leave with them, but besides that she knew absolutely nothing. No one had said a word to her either. She felt the anger, born of deep anxiety, rising in her and knew her emotions were all over the place. She took long deep breaths to calm herself down.

She leaned over and tapped the British agent on the shoulder. "Excuse me, but where are you taking me? Where am I going?" He turned around and said dispassionately,

"I'm sorry but I can't say yet. Perhaps when you are on the plane.." Molly felt the anger surge through her.

"That's unacceptable. I have a right to know where I'm going. Who am I going to tell? For heavens sake!" The man turned away from her and said, calmly and factually,

"I'm sorry Doctor Hooper, but that's standard procedure. Like I said, maybe when we get you on the plane." She exhaled an angry breath and pulled her mobile phone out of her pocket. The Irish Special Branch officer sighed sympathetically beside her.

"I'm sorry Miss, but you'll have no service, no network provider. They'll get you hooked back up again when it's considered safe." He softened his tone and spoke compassionately to her. "I know this is overwhelming, probably impossible to take in, but I need you to give me your phone now too Doctor. You were tracked to Grafton Street the other day and we are still not fully sure how. You will likely be given another phone when you reach your destination." She stared at her phone and sure enough, a 'no network' message flashed back at her. She handed it to him, and grumbled,

"Not much bloody good to me now anyway, is it?" She sighed, feeling slightly guilty. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm finding this a little difficult."

"That's perfectly understandable. There just hasn't been time to brief you on what to expect, and what is expected from you. Please be assured though, that you are safe, Dr Hooper, and that's rather the point. The rest will fall into place, ok?" He opened the car window and threw her phone out on the motorway and she gasped incredulously.

"Just a few short days ago, my flat, my home in London, was burned to the ground and that phone was one of the few remaining personal possessions I actually had left, and you've just thrown it out the bloody window!" She laughed self depreciatingly. "I'm sorry, I know how ridiculous I'm being. Things are just...,happening so fast." The British agent turned his head then and responded more kindly.

"You're doing just fine Dr Hooper. Things will become far more stable for you in the next forty eight hours, and you will be assisted to adjust as readily as possible. I know it sounds trite, but please try not to worry. Believe me, it is in our interest to keep you alive and well. You have been given the same security category as our top world leaders, and I'm not sure which Holmes brother I'd worry about more, should you even catch a cold!" Molly exhaled a laugh and nodded her head at him. She felt a little calmer. She had no idea when she would even speak to Sherlock again, never mind see him though, and as she felt the pain and distress of that new reality rising again, she reminded herself repeatedly that she wasn't going to think about that now.

The remaining journey passed in silence. Molly recognised the Baldonnel military airport as they swept through the security checkpoint and choked back a sob. She could hardly believe how much had happened in the few days since she had arrived here on Aoife's jet with her friends, and Sherlock caring for her, and wrapping his coat around her on the plane. She dug her nails into her palm and swallowed her distress back. The Irishman suddenly laughed in surprise as they approached the Gulfstream jet sitting on the runway.

"Jaysus mate, you weren't kidding. They've only provided one of the Irish Government jets!" He pointed to the Irish tricoloured flags on the sides of the cockpit, "And the newest one at that!" The British agent nodded approvingly.

"Smart move too. They'll be watching for private aircraft or for Aoife's jet. These jets carry the Taoiseach or your ministers all over Europe and ..."he paused and smiled at Molly "further afield, on official trips all the time. Good, lets go now Dr Hooper, and get you on board."

Ten minutes later, back in Aoife's house, Mycroft sighed and putting down his phone, he went in search of his brother. Sherlock was in his bedroom, case packed up and ready to go. He was standing staring out of the bay window, Molly's Harve Leger dress over his arm. He didn't move an inch but simply stated,

"She's left Ireland then?"

"Five minutes ago."

"Was she...how was she?"

"as expected.." Sherlock hissed in exasperation and warning.

"Mycroft..."

"She was frightened and distressed, Sherlock, but not tearful. She remained in control and calm. Like I said, 'as expected'." He paused then and asked quietly,

"How are you Sherlock?," his brother just shook his head slightly but Mycroft knew his tells. His shoulders were clenched tightly and he was running a thumb over the fabric of her dress.

"No, Mycroft, it's not a 'danger night'. I wouldn't do that to her. I wouldn't do that to us." Mycroft merely nodded.

"I know that Sherlock." He sighed deeply. "We leave for London first thing in the morning. Michael is coming with us. It would be prudent for you both to stay with me while Baker Street is being refurbished. Aoife has offered to assist you with that refurbishment, by the way, and by 'assist', knowing Aoife, she will take the plans and take over. She is happy to do it. One thing is definite. You will require the same bullet proof glass as our most 'at risk' embassy's. You will have the home for Molly that you promised her, Sherlock. Aoife will also assist with any Irish connections we unearth regarding Moran. I do think you should base yourself at my home because we can work tirelessly together there to bring Molly home. What father said tonight is true. You know it is. When we combine our resources and skills we are unstoppable. What say you?"

Sherlock was silent, considering all options, and made up his mind. His brother was right. He could use his help and probably Aoife's too. And knowing he was going ahead with the refurbishment may give Molly solace, something tangible to cling to, while everything else was so uncertain.

"I say, let's go home Mycroft." His brother nodded, deeply relieved.

"Oh, one more thing Sherlock," he said as he turned to leave the room, "the PM has rescinded your exile. It is now off the table." Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Not really Mycroft. It's just been transferred to Molly."

Mycroft closed the door quietly behind him.

Eight hours later an exhausted Molly blinked in the sunlight as she climbed down the steps of the Irish Government jet. She gaped in open mouthed astonishment at the two young United States marines standing to attention by a military jeep, waiting to escort her away from the runway. They snapped a salute at her and then one of them said, "Good morning M'am, and welcome to Quantico."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Molly woke late that afternoon to the sounds of people moving and chatting on her corridor. She had been placed, temporarily, in the FBI recruit accommodation "until a more suitable residence could be prepared for you, Doctor, we kinda had very short notice on this one." So said the Assistant Director of the FBI in Quantico, extremely courteously, as he greeted her in his office. He had suggested that she get some sleep and they'd meet up later for a proper debriefing. She'd been happy to comply. The marines had escorted her to the small room and handed her a key.

"There's a landline inside, Ma'am. Please just call this number when you wake up" one of them said, and handed her the AD's card. Feeling a little on automatic pilot, she'd smiled and nodded and closed the door behind them. Turning around in the small room, she opened her case, pulled out Sherlock's rugby shirt and stripping to her underwear, she picked it up and held it to her face. She could pick up a faint scent of his cologne, and him, and she pulled it on and climbing into the bed, she pulled the covers over her head and cried out all the stress and grief of the last hours. Then she had cleaned herself up and fell back into the bed into an exhausted sleep.

By 18:00 Molly found herself back in the AD's office. He reintroduced himself as AD Mark McBride, and Molly was struck by how kind and considerate he was. He told her he was aware of who she was and why she was their 'guest'. He was sympathetic and practical. He told her he estimated that she would be with them for a number of months, that she should not attempt to leave the compound but that it was 'like a small town here' and she could get everything she needed onsite. He handed her a boxed package with a mobile phone, credit cards in the name of 'Dr Mary Smith' "courtesy of the British Government" and she was not to worry about credit, "according to a certain Mycroft Holmes" and he winked then at her.

Molly smiled back at him. She'd taken to him and was grateful for his straightforwardness. He told her, apologetically, that the phone could only make outward calls to within a three mile radius, but she could receive calls 'from anywhere'. There were also keys to a jeep, and security clearance cards, again in the name of 'Dr Mary Smith'. He also advised her her that he wanted her to undergo a complete medical check, including x-rays on her wrist, as they couldn't risk having the London ones sent over to them. Then he asked her if she had questions or anything she'd like to say and she nodded.

"Thank you so much and yes, there are some things. I am a trained forensic pathologist and I know you train your agents here, and that you have a 'body farm'; so I'd love to give some tutorials, if possible, for my duration here. I have plenty of experience training interns at home. It would keep me busy and I can be of some use to you."

"I was hoping you would say that, Doctor Smith," he smiled at her, "we'd be delighted to have you on board. And yes, everyone will assume you are not 'Mary Smith' but they won't ask questions here. If anyone does, you come to me immediately." She assured him that she would and then she said determinedly,

"I would also like to do self defence classes Mr McBride, if that's ok with you, as many as possible and as often as possible, even with this cast, please, and also, I would like to build up my fitness levels. I think it would be good for me and anyway I...," she faltered slightly and kept going, "I promised someone special that I would, and I mean to keep that promise".

The Assistant Director laughed at that and replied, "God knows Doctor, you are in the right place for that, I'd be happy to oblige. There's just one thing though. You must call me Mark."

He'd left it at that, telling her his wife would be in contact later in the week to arrange to invite her to dinner, and then he personally drove her to her new residence. It was a lovely spacious two bedroomed house 'spousal quarters,' he'd explained, with it's own back garden. Her stuff had already been packed and delivered by the time they'd arrived. She found her case sitting on the hallway floor. She picked it up and carried it into the bedroom. She explored the house then and was grateful to find the fridge fully stacked. Molly took a deep breath and looking around her, vowed to make the most of her time here. She plugged in the phone, determined to keep it charged, and wondered when she would hear from Sherlock.

Six weeks later she still had not heard one word from him or anybody else.

Molly had stuck to her word and settled into a routine. She rose early in the morning, and went for a run, in all weathers, building up her durability and distance. Then she taught the trainee agents for two hours every day. After teaching class she went to the lab to prepare for her classes and autopsy demonstrations for the next day. Every afternoon she attended self defence classes and participated as much as she could with her temporary impediment. She was determined to learn how to defend herself and to get fit. She also found the exercise to be a great outlet for her emotional distress too. Because by the time the first week was over she was very angry indeed. Angry at her predicament and the open ended nature of it, and as the days went by without any word from Sherlock, or anybody else from home, she moved from hurt and incredulous to livid.

As the long days turned into weeks, she learned to stop checking her phone, because every time there was no message, no missed calls, no word from London, or Sherlock, the hurt would wash over her heart in waves. She became subdued and introverted, particularly when she wasn't teaching. She was polite and friendly with all around her, but her smile never quite made it to her eyes. She lost a lot of weight over the weeks, that she couldn't afford to lose. She realised she'd have to eat properly to manage her training regime, because her energy levels flagged, so she forced herself to. She also dined with some of the teaching staff, or the McBrides, at least once a week, knowing that if she didn't, they'd be concerned.

She was just going through the motions though, and frequently, at night she would bury her head under the covers and choke back the sobs, overwhelmed at the scale of her abandonment. The month of February came and went, and as the weeks went by she got fitter and more furious. Then one evening, in mid March, her phone rang, just as she was about to go out to meet Sheila, Mark's wife, for an late run. Thinking it was Sheila cancelling, she answered without checking the number,

"Hello?"

"Hello Molly."

It was Sherlock, finally, and although her heart jumped in her chest, she said nothing at all. "Molly? Are you there?" and when she did answer, she was cold and remote.

"Am I here? Yes Sherlock, I've been here for quite some time now, as it happens." There was silence for a second.

"I know Molly, I'm sorry. I couldn't risk it before now. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Actually, I'm on my way out to meet someone, so I'd better go. I don't want to be late."

"Molly, wait...please..." and the silence went on so long, he thought she'd gone, and then she said, in that brittle, detached voice he hated,

"Oh, I did wait, I waited and waited, for so many weeks, for even one word from you. Anyway, thank you for calling." He gritted his teeth and tried again.

"Alright Molly. I know you're angry. I can't say I blame you. I will call you back tomorrow though, and every day I can from now on. I'm sorry, so sorry about all of this." She relented a little bit then, and asked him quietly,

"You will? You'll call again tomorrow?"

"Yes Molly. I promise." He paused and asked her softly, "will you talk to me then, my darling?" Tears filled her eyes and she choked back a sob.

"Probably," and he laughed ruefully.

"I'll live in hope then, and Molly?"

"Yes Sherlock?" and he closed his eyes, and exhaled in relief because she'd finally spoken his name.

"To say that I've missed you would be quite the understatement." She sat down on the side of the bed, tears running unchecked down her face.

"Oh Sherlock! I've missed you too. So very much." He smiled and softly said,

"Don't cry Molly."

"I'm not!"

"Molly.." he chided gently, and she laughed through her tears.

"Oh alright, I am a little. I...it's just so good to finally hear your voice"

"And yours, my darling girl." he rasped, and added quietly, "I've been so worried."

"No! no, you mustn't worry Sherlock. I'm fine really, and I'll be so much better now that we've spoken. I'm training really hard you know."

"So I've heard." He replied, and she laughed.

"Oh have you now?" and Sherlock smiled down the phone.

"Of course! Mycroft gives me daily updates. I've insisted on that, at the very least." She exhaled deeply, relief pouring out of her, knowing that she was wrong about being left all alone.

"That's good to know. I've been feeling a little abandoned." He was quiet for a second.

"They're looking after you, the Americans?"

"Oh they really are Sherlock. They've been terribly kind, and guess what?"

"I never guess Molly," he said quickly, and she giggled, and the sound of it delighted him.

"Yes you do!"

"Molly! The very idea..." He laughed with her. "You're getting your cast taken off tomorrow."

"Yes! finally. I'm so pleased."

"Your wrist will be weak and thin Molly, you know that, right? Please don't get a shock. You'll build it back up very quickly."

"I know," she said softly, "I wont be shocked, honestly. That's nothing towards what I've been through lately." He sucked in a breath.

"I know my darling, I promise I'll make it up to you."

"Sherlock, I wasn't..."

"I know you weren't, Molly, but I will make it right. Emm, Aoife has been working on the refurbishment of Baker Street, and on our lab. It's already taking shape. I hope you'll love it. I think you will."

"She has?! Oh Sherlock! That's wonderful. I'd sort of assumed that was all on hold. I'm so glad it's not!" He smiled down the phone.

"Far from it. She has a whole team of Irish builders working for her, hanging on her every word, you know what she's like." Molly laughed at the mental image. Then he murmured softly to her,

"I meant every word I said to you in Ireland Molly. You do know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I do know. I wear your ring every day and night. It never comes off my hand. I'm so sorry I was a cow earlier."

"Forget it Molly, it's perfectly understandable. I imagine I'd be more then a little peeved at you too. I am sorry to have left it so long. I will explain further later on. OK?"

"OK." She paused then and asked him, softly and lovingly. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"How have you been?" He sighed and then laughed ruefully.

"According to John and Mycroft?"

"No. According to Sherlock Holmes." And he smiled at her determination to press him for the truth.

"Let's just say I'm a lot better now too, having heard your voice."

"Are you sleeping?"

"Enough."

"Sherlock..."

"Well It's just so damned hard without you Molly." he said back tersely. "I got very used to having you in my bed, you know." His voice cracked a little, "It's hardest at night, alone with my thoughts, and wanting you with me so badly." Molly swallowed tears back furiously, and sighed.

"Tell me about it... I physically ache for you Sherlock." She paused and smiled wistfully. "yes, especially at night, I long to have you in my arms again."

"And I you."

The doorbell rang and she sighed. "Sheila's here Sherlock. It's late there now anyway. Will you go and try to sleep? Listen to me now. I love you Sherlock Holmes, and I'm fine now that you've called, so try, for me, please?"

"Alright Molly, and Molly?"

"Yes?"

"I love you too, and for the record, right now, I couldn't be more proud of you."

Sherlock said goodbye then and hung up the phone. Molly sat for another minute and held a hand over her smiling mouth, breathing deeply. Then she ran to the door and beamed at Sheila, and her smile lit up her eyes for the first time since she arrived on American soil. Sheila grinned and pulled her into a hug.

"It's about time girl!" Molly laughed loudly.

"Better late then never Sheila!" Molly ran her first ten kilometres that evening.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sherlock smiled broadly as he finished his call to Molly, thanking his lucky stars that it had gone as well as it had. He'd been afraid that she'd just hang up on him, knew she almost had, but Molly Hooper was forgiving by nature and she loved him steadfastly, despite everything. Leaving her without any contact from him, and for so long, had been an agonising decision, but he knew it was the right one. The trail to Molly had to grow very cold if he was to thwart a killer of the calibre of Sebastian Moran. After he'd calmed his emotions the night she left Ireland, he'd realised that.

His mind wandered back to the first dark days as he'd resolutely stuck to his decision, and how awful it must have been for her as she began to realise he was not going to contact her. He knew how profoundly hurt she'd been, because he knew her. Knowing he was the cause of more pain and distress to her, because of a deliberate decision on his part, had tormented him. He'd spent the last long weeks constantly worried about her emotional well-being. Mycroft, at his insistence, had provided him with uncensored reports of her progress every evening. The few photo's he'd seen had concerned him the most, because she was thinner, and looked deeply unhappy.

This 'Assistant Director Mark McBride' had refused to send many 'unsolicited' photos of her, dictating that the daily reports were sufficient and there was no need for that level of 'intrusion' on Dr Hooper's privacy. He frowned possessively at the protectiveness of the AD's stance and then dismissed it, knowing he was being irrational. He acknowledged to himself, not for the first time, that Mycroft's choice of location for Molly was an inspired one. She was surrounded by apparently decent, motivating people, in a learning environment, and was able to work and train, instead of going out of her mind holed up in some hotel or house in the middle of nowhere.

And It was Mycroft who'd insisted that almost six weeks was long enough, and handed him the secure phone. "Call her today Sherlock, for all our sakes, because I need your head fully in the game here, and because you've been bloody unbearable, but mostly for Molly's sake, because that woman needs to hear your voice."

He felt the comfort and relief of finally conversing with her begin to sooth his heart and mind and he finally relaxed. She really was fine, in fact, she was bloody extraordinary, and what's more, she was still his. She had forgiven him his absence. He could focus now; Mycroft, damn him, was right, he hadn't been fully in the game, because he'd been half out of his mind with worry. Which wasn't to say that he had not made any progress.

Mary Watson, unsurprisingly, had been a tremendous resource. For weeks she had painstakingly raked through every face that had traversed the four doors of the large department store in Dublin along with the images of the people moving within it. As it turned out, she was one of the only people in the world that could identify Sebastian Moran and she'd explained that the only reason she was still alive today was because he didn't know she'd seen his face.

She'd told Sherlock and Mycroft that ten years ago, while she was 'freelance' she'd been approached to 'remove' a serious threat to a young Italian heiress. The seventeen year old had been aggressively stalked by a fifty year old man with a history of serious sexual offences, a man who was suspected of being responsible for the murders of at least two young prostitutes. In the last incident the teenager had very narrowly escaped from his clutches, thanks to a vigilant bodyguard. The young Italian girl was terrified and so was her father. He would do it himself, he'd told her, but he'd be arrested immediately.

Mary had agreed to the job, but as she closed in on her quarry she'd noticed another man observing and tracking the stalker too. She'd been alerted to the danger in him in a second and aborted the commission. Miraculously, he had not noticed her. She had dressed like a tourist and they were ten a penny in Rome and, as per usual, her gender played a large role in her anonymity. "Most men will never consider a woman to be a threat", she'd told them, raising a knowing eyebrow at Sherlock.

Mary's finely tuned instincts had saved her that day. Under pressure from Mary, the girls father had admitted that he'd hired someone else too, to ensure the success of the operation. He told her the little he knew. He was Irish, and that his name was Moran. Whether it was a pseudonym or not, she didn't know, but over the years his name had become almost mythical.

He was completely unscrupulous in the jobs he would take and was in it purely for financial gain. His method of operation was always the same, she explained. He would approach his victim, whether they were prime ministers, gangsters or simply a wealthy spouse, and have some type of interaction with them, much like he'd had with Molly. Then within a month, his target would be dead. He was purported to be ex IRA, (confirmed by Aoife and Mycroft), and also to have been Jim Moriarty's lover, although that was unsubstantiated.

Although she'd recognised him in his 'old man' outfit, that fateful night at the party, they needed a proper image. Yesterday, she'd finally spotted him, in all the thousands of images of people in the store. Just as Sherlock had deduced, Moran had discarded his 'old man's' wig, hat and coat to evade Aoife's security and the British agents in the store. They'd been found hanging on a rack of clothes in the mens department. "Smart", he'd mused, "hide a stone in a quarry," and when Moran had donned a branded recreational jacket, popular with the salubrious patrons of the Dublin store, he'd blended right in.

Moran had carefully choreographed his movements to avoid leaving any full facial image but for one split second, he'd made a mistake. As he'd made his way out of the rear entrance, a Garda car could be seen driving by, and he'd instinctively turned his face sharply to the right, just for a second, but it was enough. They had a facial shot and Sherlock knew what he looked like. And now, thanks to Mycroft, so did MI5, MI6, Interpol, Europol and the FBI and CIA. Every single agency wanted to get their hands on him. Sherlock had loved that. Now the hunter was also the hunted.

Mary had liked that too. John, on the other hand, hadn't liked Mary's involvement one little bit, but she'd assured him that Moran was clueless about her true identity. She'd also pointed out to him and Sherlock, quite smugly, that Sherlock had already beaten Moran in a way, because it was six weeks now and Molly was still alive. Moran's record was smashed.

Sherlock had always determined that there would be two strands to the investigation, and Michael Reilly, 'on secondment to Interpol', had not been idle either. Locating James Moriarty Senior encompassed 'part II'. Michael had put feelers out to all of the major US cities with Irish connections, which by definition, meant all major US cities. It was painstaking and careful work, but Michael had a talent for it. His instinct veered towards the Eastern seaboard cities, and Sherlock concurred with his view. New York, Boston, Philadelphia, even Washington DC had long established Irish communities, and he believed that it was where Moriarty had gone. One month in the US and Michael had called him to come over and join him. He had a lead.

Sherlock slipped the phone into his hand luggage and smirked into the mirror, thinking that If Molly could actually see him right now she'd probably kill him. His face, or rather, his image, was just too well known and so his trademark Balstaff coat and black curly hair were gone. Instead, he had wavy, dark auburn hair, cropped short at the sides and a little longer on top. Mr 'Declan Lawlor', a wealth businessman from Dublin, smirked back at him.

He'd arrived into Dublin airport hours earlier and as he went through the US immigration preclearance, he acknowledged once again that his brother could be extremely useful. As the Aer Lingus flight soared into the night sky, he settled back in his first class seat and allowed himself an indulgent smile. As soon as permitted, he reclined his seat and settled down to sleep, like he'd promised her he would. He was going to America, and that, by a very happy coincidence, was where his Molly was too.

Ten hours later 'Declan Lawlor' settled into his suite in Fitzpatrick's hotel on Lexington Avenue, Midtown East, Manhattan, NYC. Aoife had reiterated what he already knew. It was the favourite hotel for Irish business people and tourists alike. The Taoiseach stayed there when his visits were to the US were informal in nature. It was where deals were done, where Irish business people networked furiously and was also 'the place to be seen'. Aoife, with one phone call to the uber discreet owner/manager, had booked him into a suite on the top floor, for an indefinite period. From the time he'd left London, his South Dublin, 'a la Jim Moriarty,' accent was permanently in place. He grinned ruefully. He'd also had to brush up on his Irish rugby, especially staying in this hotel, and considering where he was meant to be from.

It was only five in the morning but he'd slept for hours on the plane. The uniquely Manhattan sounds of traffic and sirens and garbage trucks, muted though they were, infiltrated the room, and he liked the window open. Good hotel rooms seemed to always be cloyingly hot. He lay on the large bed and his mind drifted back to the last time he'd stayed in an Irish luxury hotel. He sighed and decided that was a very bad idea.

He showered and changed into black designer jeans, that fit him like a glove, a fitted black shirt and black cashmere jumper. Black fleece lined boots followed. He pulled on a deep woollen Hugo Boss short coat, wrapped an ice blue cashmere scarf around his neck and pulled on a black knit cap. It was a week to St Patrick's Day, and New York was freezing, but happily, snow free. Restless, he set out and walked the Manhattan streets for miles. He headed west and up Broadway, while the city woke up around him. He texted Michael and arranged to meet him for breakfast in Brooklyn.

Keeping in character, 'Declan' greeted Michael with a bear hug, much to his amusement, and the men chose a quiet booth where they couldn't be overheard. Michael scanned the appearance of his friend and grinned in approval. "It suits you, Jaysus, I'll be spending all my time driving the women away from you!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and then laughed ruefully.

"I seem to manage that very well on my own, Michael." Michael gave him a sympathetic look.

"Hardly, 'Deco' and don't you worry. We'll have it sorted soon enough. You did good yesterday, you and Mary."

"Well, it should piss him off at any rate, and emotional people make mistakes, as I have to keep reminding myself." Michael nodded and then asked him gently,

"So how is she doing?" He shrugged and then sighed and responded,

"I believe the expression is 'very well, considering'." He looked up at Michael and pain flashed across his eyes momentarily. "I was able to speak to her yesterday, finally. My brother assures me that our phones are hack proof now and he's never wrong." He smiled warmly at Michael then, "suffice to say we are both considerably better then we were twenty four hours ago, thank you, now, fill me in?"

So Michael did, and his lead was a strong one. He'd managed to track down a Dublin man, name of O'Neill who'd settled in New York for over twenty years, whom, his sources said, had known Jim Moriarty Senior in Dublin and then moved to New York shortly after him. The men were long time friends and had conducted business together in both countries. Rumour had it they'd parted ways amicably, were still in touch, and if anyone knew where Moriary was now, O'Neill did.

He owned and ran a hotel and bar, long suspected to be a front for more nefarious enterprises, in Woodlawn, an Irish community in upstate New York. According to Michael's sources, he could usually be found there most evenings. "And," he added, "he's decidedly dodgy. Small time, but dangerous, none the less. Known to carry a knife and usually has a couple of thugs with him." Sherlock grinned in delight.

"Oh brilliant! I've needed to let off steam for weeks!" and Michael roared laughing.

"I'd a feeling you'd say that! I'll email you what I have and drop into your hotel to collect you at about four o'clock."

Sherlock nodded, as the arrangement suited him. He'd go back to his hotel and review Michael's file, and maybe grab a couple of hours sleep. Jetlag was kicking in just a little and he wanted to be fresh. Before the men parted he thanked Michael for helping him, which Michael brushed off with a wink.

"Go on out of that, anyone would think we were friends." As he sauntered off down the path, Sherlock watched him go and said to himself quietly,

"They'd be right."

By midday he was back in his hotel room. He kicked off his boots and sitting up on the bed, he pulled out his mobile and called Molly, like he'd promised her he would. She answered after just two rings and he grinned smugly to himself, knowing she'd kept her phone close to her.

"Hello?" She said, and he couldn't seem to control it, his ridiculous heart leaping in his chest with one word from her.

"Hello yourself Doctor," sultry and deep, and she gasped in delight.

"Sherlock! oh my goodness, hi, hang on a minute..," he could hear the sound of a door closing and then she was back, "sorry, I'm in my office and the door was open. Are you still there?"

"I'm here Molly, how are you? How's your wrist?"

"I'm fine Sherlock, my wrist is ok, it looks emaciated and feels weird with the weight of the cast gone, but I'll start physiotherapy tomorrow, and that will sort it in no time, like you said." He sighed unhappily,

"I had wanted you to attend the best clinic in London but, well, needs must, I suppose," and she tutted gently at him.

"Stop fussing you, It was a very straightforward break, and they do know what they're doing here."

"I know Molly, but it feels like yet another promise to you that I've broken." Molly stilled, knowing there was fathoms more to that statement, indicative of his state of mind, then he'd knowingly revealed.

"Sherlock Holmes, you stop that right now! We may have had to postpone some plans we've made, but you have never broken a promise to me, not a single one!"

"Molly..."

"No, that's enough. You listen here. You promised to protect me, and you have. I hate being separated from you, but I am safe. You promised to catch Janine, and you did. You promised me you'd refurbish Baker Street so we can start our lives together, and you are. You never promised to contact me here immediately, that awful night I had to leave you, you actually said 'when you could', so you did not break your word, even though I confess I was devastated by your silence." She drew in a long shaky breath, "But, most important of all Sherlock, you promised that you love me, and I know, in my heart and soul, that you do. So never think that you've broken a promise to me, my love, because you most certainly have not."

Sherlock listened to her words in stunned silence. For a while he could not respond, he could not speak, and Molly waited him out.

"How do you do that Molly?" He whispered into his phone.

"Do what Sherlock?" she responded tenderly.

"See inside me Molly..,fortify me, inspire me, astonish me, humble me, sooth me, heal me, with just a few sentences?"

"because you let me Sherlock, you've always let me." He closed his eyes and smiled, because he knew she was right. He cleared his throat.

"I'd very much like to get my hand's on you right now Dr Hooper." He purred down into the phone and Molly giggled.

"And God knows you have magnificent hands, Mr Holmes." He laughed deep in his throat.

"Well, you certainly examined them in Bart's lab often enough, along with other parts of my anatomy..."

"Well, those 'other parts' are pretty impressive too, Sherlock, and, lets be honest, you do know how to accentuate them to their greatest advantage." Sherlock spluttered with laughter.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Molly Hooper!"

"Yeah you do! Tell me, I've always wondered, do you have those trousers sewn on each morning?" and he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

"I merely have the luxury of an excellent tailor." Molly snorted.

"With an exacting client.." and he shook with laughter again.

"There's no quarter with you Molly, is there?" and she exhaled a laugh and answered him lovingly,

"Oh there is for you Sherlock, there always has been, you know that."

"I do know it Molly.." he paused, and then whispered, "Christ, I want you Molly." She sucked in a breath.

"I want you too, very badly. I cannot wait until you fill me again, until I can wrap my arms and legs around you tightly, and bind you to me. I swear to God Sherlock, when this is over we are going straight back to Ireland, to Aoife's wonderful house, and we are locking ourselves in. I will have that week with you." He hummed at her and then, eyebrow up,

"bind, Molly?" and she giggled again,

"I meant metaphorically, you git!" and he chuckled, and said, "I think we'll need more then a week Molly." and she laughed ruefully and agreed with him. He said goodbye then and told her he hoped to call her the next day too.

"Sherlock," she said, "It's ok if you can't. I am not going to ask you any questions, or pressure you, or make any demands of you. That is not how this works, it is not how we work. We'll get through this, however long it takes, and we'll be the stronger for it. This will not break us. It will be the making of us. OK?" Her strength astonished him, yet again, and he realised then that it always would.

"OK Molly."

"Oh and Sherlock? I'm just going to leave you with one more thing."

"What is it Molly?"

"I'm very toned now!" and the minx hung up the phone. Sherlock laughed long and hard, and settling down for a nap, he once again thanked his lucky stars that he had Molly Hooper.


	4. Chapter 4

After speaking to Molly; Sherlock called his brother. He gave him the name of their target and the coordinates of the hotel and bar. It was exactly what Mycroft was waiting for. Immediately terminating his call with Sherlock, he dialled a prescribed number and thirty seconds later he was through to the Pentagon. They, in turn, had been waiting for him. Within minutes the phones and email records of O'Neill and his men, hotel and bar staff, and all known associates and family members were lifted and analysed. Irish numbers were sent to Aoife's team in Dublin to follow up.

Later that afternoon, Michael collected Sherlock as arranged and they set off in his SUV. On the half hour journey to Woodlawn the two men strategized. Michael had scouted out the bar and had eaten dinner there enough times in the last week for the staff to become familiar with him. Familiar enough that they'd started to call him 'Fassbender' because the waitresses thought he looked like the Irish actor. "Google him!" he'd responded incredulously to Sherlock's enquiring expression. He parked the car and the two men sauntered in and sat up at the bar so they wouldn't be hemmed in if things 'kicked off'.

Two minutes later the barwoman was handing them menu's, and leaning coquettishly over towards Sherlock, she purred "howaya Fassbender," who's your friend?" Sherlock grinned flirtatiously back at her and leaning forward over the bar, he winked at her and said, "How's it goin? I'm Declan." Michael smirked as he observed the detective in action. 'Declan' told the barwoman that her boss was "an old friend of my Da's, from Dublin, and I'd love to surprise him." Within a few minutes she had confided that 'the boss' was in his office upstairs, which was exactly what he was fishing for. Sherlock wanted to get up to O'Neill's office for a 'little chat,' and that called for a diversion. He glanced around the room, spotted his opportunity, and then, winking surreptitiously at Michael, he picked up a newspaper from the counter and declared aloud, "nature calls!"

Ducking into a stock room, Sherlock used a favourite trick and lit the rolled up newspaper, fanned it to smoke, and waved it under the smoke sensors. Within a few seconds the fire alarm shrieked throughout the building. He ducked back out and watched the 'Staff Only' door. Two burly men ran out to investigate the commotion, as the customers looked confusedly at each other, and then, smelling smoke, started to file out of the building. As the two men ran into the stock room towards the source of the smoke, Sherlock locked the door behind them. Then he nipped through the door they'd exited from and ran up the steep stairs, pulling out his revolver. He opened the managers door and sauntered in. O'Neill spluttered an expletive and attempted to open a drawer on his desk until 'Declan' said calmly, "Oh I wouldn't do that, if I were you. Keep your hands where I can see them and stand up."

O'Neill jumped up from his chair, red faced and furious. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"I don't have time for introductions," he responded coldly. "I will ask you just the once. Where is your 'friend', James Moriarty?" O'Neill's head jerked in surprise.

"Who's asking?" he snarled. Sherlock strode over and punched him in hard the face, and as he recoiled, he punched him again for good measure. O'Neill groaned in pain.

"Last chance, answer the question."

"I haven't spoken to him in months!" Sherlock sighed heavily punched him hard in the nose, breaking it, and assumed a tone most would use to a toddler in a tantrum.

"Answer the question you're asked. Where is he?" O'Neill's hands flew to his nose.

"Jesus! I think it's broken." Sherlock lifted his fist again and O'Neill raised his two hands in supplication, "Wait.., wait, he retired out to Virginia Beach, bought a house out there." Sherlock read him and knew it was only half the truth.

"And where is he now?" O'Neill's eyes narrowed, surprised, and then looked shrewdly at him and Sherlock knew he was made. Accent dropped, he said coldly, "you know who I am so you know what I'm capable of. For the last time, answer the question." He raised his gun and pointed it at O'Neill's chest. O'Neill quickly weighed up his options. He had not survived this long by being stupid. He also knew that two of Moriarty's kids had been shot in Ireland recently, in questionable circumstances, with Sherlock Holmes present. There was also no sign of his own men. Heads', he determined, were going to roll, but he did not want to see Sherlock Holmes anywhere near him or his business, ever again, so he told him,

"He's in a nursing home now, I'll write it down." Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket and he knew it was Michael warning him to hurry. O'Neill scribbled an address hastily on the back of an envelope and thrust it towards Sherlock. He scanned it and slipping it into his jacket, he patted the side of his pocket smugly and then he moved towards the window, which housed the fire escape.

"Good man. You'd best consider retirement yourself, and one last thing, If you even attempt to tip him off, I will know about it and I will be back to see you. You don't want that, do you?" O'Neill shook his head, glared at him. Sherlock cocked his head as he considered the veracity of his answer, and then nodded to himself. Then he pistol whipped O'Neill, knocking him out, and flew down the fire escape to where Michael was waiting in the car, engine running. As soon as Sherlock hopped in, Michael floored it, as O'Neill's men came scrambling out of the window and onto the fire escape.

"Jaysus Sherlock, what kept you? Did yez have a nice cup of tea or what?" Sherlock laughed heartily as a bullet ricocheted off the tarmac behind them.

"Just having a little chat. I do hope you filled the tank Michael." Michael steered the car up the main street, by-passing police cars and fire engines as they hurtled towards the bar. Twinkly eyed, he turned to Sherlock.

"Why? Where are we going?" Sherlock grinned at him.

"Virginia Beach. The game is on Michael!" As Michael turned in the direction of the New Jersey turnpike, he groaned aloud and said,

"That's great Sherlock, but it's a seven hour drive, so you, me laddie, are taking over after Philadelphia. Sherlock grinned and nodded in acquiescence. Leaning back into his seat, he exhaled in satisfaction and said determinedly, "We're onto him now Michael, Moran, I can feel it. If anyone knows how to find him, its Daddy Moriarty and his best buddy O'Neill, and if O'Neill is as angry as I hope, he'll get in touch with one of them."

Three hours later a furious O'Neill looked at his swollen face in the mirror of the gents toilets in his bar. The chaos in his bar and cops questions had left him seething, and he'd had to tell very sceptical cops that he'd tripped up and fallen on his face trying to get out of his office when the fire alarm went off. Storming outside, he went up to one of his bar staff and demanded the use of their phone. Tapping out a number, he waited for the intended recipient to respond. After six rings, just as he thought it would not be answered, Sebastian Moran answered with one word, "yes?"

"Sherlock Holmes is on his way to Virginia Beach." Moran terminated the call and hissed in anger. He'd deal with that fool, O'Neill. Taking his phone he smashed it on the granite surface of the kitchen unit in his apartment in Boston. Removing the chip, he cut it up into small pieces. He'd been forced to beat a hasty retreat due to that damn photo of him in Dublin. He'd also been frustrated trying to locate that bloody girlfriend of Holmes. He knew she was in America but the trail had gone very cold weeks ago and none of his usual sources had been useful.

He grinned then. He'd lost track of Sherlock Holmes a few days ago. It was very convenient of him to show up here, because If anyone could lead him to Dr Hooper, it was her love sick boyfriend. He pulled on his jacket, and picking up his holdall bag, he took a last look in the hall mirror at his new image as he left for the underground car park. He had a long drive ahead of him. Ten minutes later Mycroft called his brother and said, rather smugly, "he's in Boston. We lost the trace but not before O'Neill told him you where you are going." Sherlock exclaimed in delight.

"You mean to tell me he answered the phone! Oh Mycroft! He's rattled. He's off his game. This is better then we'd hoped, sooner then we thought."

"It is Sherlock, but be patient, he may be baited but we still have to reel him in. He will have altered his appearance again too, so expect the unexpected." Sherlock sighed in exasperation but realised that his brother was 'stating the obvious' in fear that he, Sherlock, would make a mistake out of concern for Molly.

"I do know that Mycroft, stop worrying, you'll trace all calls made in and out of his phone, now that you have the number?" Now it was Mycroft's turn to be irritated.

"Of course Sherlock, they're working on it now. We'll soon know who commissioned the hit on Molly, and they'll rue the day they were born." Sherlock paused then,

"I do appreciate it Mycroft, how you care for her." Mycroft gave a rueful laugh.

"Sherlock, I care for both of you." Sherlock chuckled down the phone.

"My God, brother mine, whatever happened to 'caring is not an advantage'?" and his brother laughed.

"Context Sherlock. Irene Adler is not worth an ounce of sentiment. Molly Hooper on the other hand..." he trailed off, not needing to continue.

"Speaking of Molly, prepare to get me in to see her Mycroft, and no, I'm not 'rushing in', I just said 'prepare.' Laters." and he hung up the phone. It was only then that he realised that his brother had used the present tense regarding Adler and he rolled his eyes and smirked. He should have known really. Nothing ever got by Mycroft. And as if to prove the point, Mycroft sent him a list of residents and their room numbers twenty minutes later, blaming the Americans for the delay, and Sherlock sighed when he read it. 'Daddy Moriarty' was in Stage 1 of Alzheimer's disease, which meant he suffered from memory loss and may not be of any use. Still, it needed to be checked and a DNA analysis performed.

The men drove through the night, sharing the drive between them, with Michael insisting that Sherlock talk to him to keep him focussed and awake. So they talked about cases they'd worked on and a bit about their backgrounds and education and Sherlock found it was easy to talk to Michael, just like it was to John, because he didn't make judgements or inane comments. They stopped for coffee and to freshen up, but never for long, and at 4:00am Sherlock pulled into the carpark of 'Our Lady's Manor Nursing Care' home. He drove into the staff parking area, at the back of the building and switched off the engine and interior lights. There were other cars, belonging to the night staff, so they didn't stand out.

"I suppose I'm look-out again then?" Michael said, a tad disgruntled.

"Well...yes?" and Michael laughed reluctantly.

"Oh go on then, seems its your case and, to be fair, your girl."

"Yes, there is that, and also, well, you're 'by the book' Michael," and he smirked, "for the most part, and that's good, you should be, you're a detective working for the Irish State."

Turning to look him in the eye then he said, "I don't have that book, I never did have, and I am prepared for the consequences of that, especially now with Molly." He inhaled sharply. "There is nothing I wouldn't do to keep her safe Michael, but I can not expect that from you. Do you understand?" Michael smiled warmly at him.

"Books can sometimes have many adaptations, my friend." Sherlock tilted his head curiously at him, but Michael didn't expand any further. Then Michael gestured behind him to the large grounds at the back. "I'll have a quick scout around while your inside, but, if you're not out in twenty minutes I'm coming in to find you, and that's final." He took off then moving quickly towards the large wooded area to the rear of the manicured lawn and gardens.

Three minutes later Sherlock slipped into Moriarty Senior's room, leaving the light off. Approaching the sleeping man's bed he reached over, plucked a few short hairs from his head and slipped them into a plastic bag and then sealed it up. The old man began to wake and Sherlock crouched down on his hunkers and adapted his Irish accent again.

"Hello Dad, It's me, Jim." The old man struggled to get up but Sherlock pressed his hand on his chest to keep him lying down.

"Jim, is it? Turn on the light there boy, I can't see you."

"Better not Dad, you know yourself, shouldn't be here." The old man laughed.

"Who's looking for you now?" Sherlock parodied Jim Moriarty and in a sing song voice answered,

"Everybody!" and his 'father' laughed.

"Dad, I'm looking for Seb, Sebastian Moran. Have you seen him?"

"Who?"

"Moran Dad, you remember?" Sherlock aped a shooting using his fingers. The old man glowered.

"That fella!, I warned you to stay away from him. Disgusting! He corrupted you son. You weren't into that shite before you took up with him!" With that Sherlock confirmed what he needed. The long held rumours were true. This man had not hired Moran. He was acting alone and out of revenge. Sinead Moriarty had held him off and when she failed to rip his heart out, dying for her trouble, he stepped forward to finish the job.

"Don't worry about that, I'm looking to kill him. Tell him if you see him, won't you?"

The old man cackled and then hacked in his chest. Sherlock took some cotton swabs from the old man's locker and prising his mouth open none too gently, he swiped the palate of his mouth and sealed the swab up in an evidence bag too. He left the room without a backward glance. The facility was practically deserted and he had no trouble avoiding the few staff that were on duty. He met up with Michael and they got back into the car and drove away. As they pulled out of the wide entrance, Sherlock received a text from Mycroft. O'Neill had been shot in the head in the driveway of his home, with a high calibre weapon, and from a distance. Sebastian Moran had taken a detour.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Michael glanced sideways at Sherlock as he drove towards the Interstate and decided to steer towards Richmond. Sherlock had disappeared into his 'mind palace' since he'd received the text regarding the murder of O'Neill. Michael pondered it worriedly too. It was out of character for a man who had only ever killed on commission. His whole 'method of operation' seemed to have gone out the window. Diverting from a mission to extract revenge was totally out of character for him, based on all the intelligence they had on the man to date. Sherlock obviously thought the same thing.

Michael figured that Sherlock's return 'from the dead' had probably set him off, realising that he'd been had, and perhaps Moran had even assumed that Sherlock had killed Jim Moriarty on the roof of that London hospital before supposedly jumping to his death. Sherlock's triumphant return, large as life, may have triggered something in him that Sinead Moriarty had been able to suppress for a time, with her own plans to inflict maximum emotional pain on Sherlock Holmes.

'Poor Molly,' Michael thought, not for the first time; to be the focus of two murderous psychopaths in as many months. He set his jaw determinedly. He was wise enough to know that he was personally involved now, both with this case and with this gifted man in the car beside him. He'd begun to consider Sherlock Holmes a friend. The fact that both of the killers were Irish bothered him too. He took that personally, and he knew that Aoife Quinn did too.

She'd paved the way for him to be in America, through her role in the Irish Government, and also through her personal relationship with 'the British Government', otherwise known as Mycroft Holmes. The resources and power between those two was formidable and very bloody convenient. He sighed to himself. A sniper was tricky though. He'd have to be baited and trapped. It was the best way to catch him. How to do that, he'd leave to Sherlock.

Twenty minutes later and Sherlock popped his eyes open. Noting the route, he turned and grinned at Michael. Michael laughed back at him. "Quantico then?" Smiling broadly; Sherlock nodded.

"He'll figure out where she is very quickly. It will take him minimum four days, and maximum a week, to break through the security at Quantico and get to her. He's after us too now, so the safest place for us both to be is ensconced with the FBI for a couple of days, instead of holed up in some motel where we're more vulnerable. He's an expert sniper and snipers are tricky to catch, but you know that, don't you?"

Sherlock smirked at him then. "We're nearing the end game now Michael. I'll arrange with Mycroft to move Molly back to London as soon as possible. She can stay with him until Moran is stopped. His house is as secure as Fort Knox. Would you like to return to Ireland now, or see it out here?"

"Go home at this point in the game? Are you mad? Not a chance my friend!" Sherlock cleared his throat and pressed his lips together thoughtfully.

"I'd be glad to have you stay." He paused, and then soldiered on, deciding it had to be said. "You know Michael, I once told John I didn't have 'friends', that I just had one. I believe that number may have doubled now." Michael smiled, genuinely touched, because he knew that wasn't easily said.

"I can see why they call you a genius so!" and Sherlock laughed, and taking out his phone, he called Mycroft. He expected an argument, but his brother, once again, had pre-empted his decision and concurred. He told him that the Assistant Director was expecting them both, and where to pick up his next disguise and cover credentials so they'd 'blend in' and not draw too much attention to themselves, adding, "Molly can thank me later."

"About that Mycroft. Make sure she's not informed. I want to surprise her."

"Of course Sherlock." Mycroft replied, and then said "You have a plan, I know. Should I hazard a guess?" Sherlock laughed; genuinely amused.

"You already know Mycroft! Give her what she needs and put her on the plane."

"John won't be happy Sherlock, and I do have other female agents..."

"No, it has to be Mary. She's the best and I trust her. John will understand."

"If you say so." Mycroft knew to leave it at that.

"You have thirty six hours Sherlock. Give my love to Molly."

"Yes. Thank you Mycroft." His brother chuckled and hung up. Then Sherlock called John and Mary Watson.

Three hours later Molly Hooper sat down at the side of her bed and wrinkled her nose in curiosity. Sheila had just called and cancelled meeting her for their morning run. She sounded distinctly odd too, almost as if she were happy about it. Molly was disappointed though. She was quite lonely here really. Everyone was very nice but she missed her friends and her life, and Sherlock most of all. Perhaps she was too reliant on Sheila for companionship, she thought, but she was a lovely person and they got on well. She sighed sadly and leaned down to tie her lace.

"Sorry your friend cancelled, Molly. Will I do instead?" Molly's heart felt like it exploded in her chest. She gasped and swung around to see a cocky, and very sexy looking Sherlock Holmes, dressed, head to toe, in a US Navy uniform, arms crossed, and leaning a shoulder nonchalantly against the doorframe of her bedroom.

"Sherlock! Oh My God!"

She jumped to her feet, stepped up on her bed and ran straight across it, because it was the quickest route to him. Sherlock's heart raced as he watched her hurtling towards him; big dimpled smile, and her eyes dancing with joy at the sight of him, and he laughed and opened his arms out to her. Molly leapt off the bed, straight into them.

He hauled her hard against him, lifting her, and she clamped her arms and legs around him and hugged him tightly to her, burying her face into his neck and breathing him in.

"Oh Sherlock!"

He reached a hand up and, tugging out her hair-tie, he tossed it away and raked his fingers through her hair, then gripping it gently, he tugged her head back and gazed at her beloved face. He scanned her features and then smiled so widely at her that his whole face crinkled handsomely, in the way she adored, and she beamed back at him, cupping him by the sides of his head.

"Hello Molly."

They grinned happily at each other and then she leaned in, and closing her eyes, she kissed him passionately. He returned her kiss and groaned into her mouth, coaxing it open, and delving into it. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest, and he just kept on kissing her hungrily; he'd missed her so damned much.

Molly reached up and grabbing the white, flat peaked navy cap off his head, she tossed it on the floor. Reaching to grip his missing curls her fingers stilled and she pulled her head back to look at him. She tilted her head to the side, scrutinising his auburn 'do' and then ran her fingers through the wavy length at the top of his head. She smirked and raised her brows in approval at him and he laughed and reclaimed her mouth, pulling her body even more tightly against him.

He kissed her until he was out of breath and then swinging her around, he sat on the bed, with her legs still straddling him, because he wanted to touch more of her. Sherlock gripped her face and tilted her backwards slightly, to look at her again. Her fingers were entwined at the back of his neck and he ran his hands along her arms, and across her shoulders, then down her back and up her sides, brushing her breasts fleetingly, and she shuddered in response.

He smirked at her, and then tantalisingly slowly, he reached the zipper of her black fitted sports top and tugged it slowly down until it opened completely. Then he ran his hands under it, retracing the journey they'd just made. Reaching her shoulders he pulled the jacket down and tugged it until it peeled down her arms and dropped to the floor. She was wearing a tight vest sports top underneath. He raised an approving eyebrow at her and she giggled at him.

"Excellent bicep development Molly," he murmured, running his hands up from her wrists to her shoulders. She leaned forward and nuzzled his cheek with her own and then whispered in his ear, a tad breathlessly,

"I told you Sherlock, I'm all toned up. You should see the rest of me.."

"Oh I fully bloody intend to Molly Hooper. Now, arms up!" and she laughed throatily and raised them swiftly, and he swept her T-shirt over her head. He gazed lustily at her, sitting on his lap, in just her black sports bra and tight running leggings and reached for her but she grinned and grabbed his hands, stalling him.

*Ah ah!, it's my turn now Sherlock Holmes, let me look at you." He groaned in protest and she grinned mischievously at him. She ran her hands along the shoulders of his dress uniform, and then opened the buttons all the way down, revealing his shirt, and she giggled and popped her eyes widely at him. "Well, there's one fantasy to tick off the list, you in uniform...," and he laughed at her boldness. She pulled his jacket off and opened his shirt, stroking her hands along his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her core tightly up against him and opening the cuffs behind her back, he shrugged his shirt off.

"My turn now Molly," he growled and flicking open her bra, he pulled it down her arms, and it joined his shirt on the bedroom floor. He ran his thumbs across both her nipples and then tilting her backwards, he bent down to claim her breasts with his mouth. Molly moaned in his arms and he could feel her heart racing as she reached to grip his head tightly to her. As he kissed and stroked her, sucking a nipple into his mouth, Molly felt a rush of emotion that almost overwhelmed her.

"Oh my God Sherlock, I've missed you so much," she whispered brokenly to him, and he pulled his head up and saw the tears pooling in her eyes. He smiled gently at her and guiding her face down, he kissed her eyelids softly, and she smiled. He held her face tenderly in his hands as she gripped his arms.

"I know my darling, I've missed you badly too. Are you alright?" She nodded tentatively, but her bottom lip trembled and she tugged at it with her teeth.

"It's just..., I just.., I mean, can you just hold me for a minute please?"

He smiled lovingly at her, and lifting her off him, he sat her on the bed and tugged her runners off her feet, toeing his own shoes off at the same time. Grabbing a throw off her bed, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the living room. He sat in her deep armchair, with her across his lap, and wrapped the throw around the two of them. Then he pulled her into his chest and she nestled against him and wrapped her arm up around his shoulder. Sherlock kissed the crown of her head and then, tucking it under his chin, he held her tightly against him for long minutes.

As he held her to him, he crooned to her comfortingly, telling her he loved her, and that this was nearly over, and she could go back to London really soon, where his family were waiting to take care of her, "your family too now Molly," and then they'd go back to Ireland for their break together, that they'd both looked forward so much to, and that they had all day and night together now, and that afterwards, they had the rest of their lives.

As he felt her settle in his arms, he felt something settle in his own heart too, as if its balance was recalibrating and restoring itself. Then Molly reached up to him and kissed him and stroked him, and the heat and passion surged between them again. Brushing her lips under his ear, she reached down and stroked him through his trousers, and then she whispered to him, "I want you Sherlock, can we go to bed now please?" He tilted her head to him and kissing her deeply again, he lifted her with him as he stood up. She straddled his hips again, the way he loved, because it was so instinctive to her, and as she kissed into his neck, he carried her back into the bedroom, leaving the throw behind them on the chair.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

A few hours later, Molly lay curled on her side, facing a sleeping Sherlock Holmes, with a contented smile curving her lips. She loved watching him sleep, free to study the planes of his face, unobserved by the most observant man on the planet. He rolled his eyes in amusement whenever she told him he was beautiful, but he was, she thought, incredibly so. Her eyes traced the lines of his cheekbones, so sharp and defined, and down to his perfect cupid bow lips and strong jawline. They travelled further down to examine his exposed torso, their duvet just covering him from his hipbone. She sighed softly, thinking how magnificent his body was too. Long and lean, built for the bespoke wardrobe he preferred, but with a perfect musclature that was utterly deceptive in its strength. When he covered her with that body, sheathed deeply in her and thrusting, as he had just done again, well, she smiled to herself, his body was indeed 'transport' because it transported her to a different bloody realm.

He was strong in mind too. Genius abilities aside, he could withstand so much more then she ever could; including torture, judging from the scar tissue on his back. He prevaracated every time she asked him about it but, judging from the healing, it had happened only in the last year. He was a mass of contradictions too sometimes, she mused with a wry smile; he could tolerate torture, beatings and being shot without complaint, but whined incessantly to her and John if he caught a cold. He had the strength of mind and character of a great world leader, but could sulk and pout like a two year old if he didn't get his way.

He could, and would, make hard decisions, decisions that affected her too now, and that was something she was still adjusting to. She knew, because he'd told her quite honestly, that he had decided to leave her here in Quantico, incommunicado for six long and lonely weeks, even while knowing how truly terrible that had been for her, because there had been a minute percentage chance that Moran would trace her through him.

Since the beginning of their relationship, only a few short months ago, her underlying fear was that he would leave her, break up their relationship permanently, in order to keep her 'safe'. It still was, despite his reassurances. It was an outcome she was determined to prevent. It was why she had agreed to all of this, the protective custody, her exile, all of it, to prove to him that she could survive anything with him, but would only ever be half alive, without him. She watched with a smile as Sherlock moved a hand towards her, seeking her out even in his sleep, and she reached over to cover it gently with her own.

She groaned inwardly as she recalled her minor meltdown earlier. Seriously though, it was like being in a relationship with a bloody tornado sometimes, she thought. One minute she's in protective custody, months (almost) without seeing him, and wondering if he'll even get a chance to call her that day, and five minutes later she's straddling his lap, half naked, and he's kissing her breasts.

'Mr High Functioning Sociopath' had an incredible emotional perception where she was concerned however, and seemed to know exactly how she was feeling, and why, and more importantly, what to do and say to eradicate her worries. She smiled at his peaceful, sleeping face, trying to decide whether she loved their sexually intimate moments more than she loved how exquisitely tender he was with her, when that was what she needed more, and then she rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. She loved every damn thing about him, all of it, including watching him at rest. So she did exactly that. For an hour she lay beside him, holding his hand as he slept.

Sherlock slept until lunchtime and when he awakened he frowned momentarily because Molly wasn't in the bed beside him. He relaxed when he heard her humming in the kitchen. He showered quickly, and grabbing his holdall, he pulled out a change of clothes, dressing in the black jeans and black jumper. He joined her there swiftly, sliding his arms around her waist from behind and kissing into the side of her neck, eliciting a giggle from her as she leaned back into him. "Hello Molly." She turned around in his arms and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Hello yourself," she murmured as she coaxed his head down to kiss him. "Are you hungry? I'm making stew."

"So I see. I am a little, and that smells good." She looked up at him a little shyly.

"This is the first time I've ever cooked for you.."

"Nonsense Molly, you've often cooked for me."

"Fry-ups don't count Sherlock!"

"Oh!, that's blasphemy, Molly Hooper!" She laughed, hugging him to her and he joined in, and pulling out her hair tie, he ran his long fingers through her hair. "That's better," he growled into her ear and she rolled her eyes.

"I'm cooking Sherlock!"

"Correction. You've finished the preparations and it's simmering away in the pot," and she laughed again and dropped her hands, stilling as they reached his delectable arse. She nudged him back slightly.

"Are you wearing jeans?" He cocked a cheeky brow at her.

"Yep."

Molly grinned delightedly at him and, pushing him backwards, she walked around him, scrutinising him as he laughed at her. "Molly Hooper! You're incorrigible!" She wiggled her eyebrows comically at him and ran a slow index finger up his chest.

"This makes two fantasies, in the same day, and it isn't even my birthday!"

"Well, I thought you deserved a treat, darling," he responded teasingly and she roared with laughter. He chuckled deeply and then took her hands in his, turning the left one first to examine the Claddagh ring he'd given her in Dublin. He smiled lovingly at her and kissed it and then held her right hand out to examine her wrist. He held her palm up against his and said, "push my hand as hard as you can Molly." So she did and he nodded, satisfied. "That's very good Molly. It'll be back to full functionality in no time at all." He kissed the back of her hand and then tucked her hair behind her ear. "Would you like me to set the table?" She grinned happily at him. "What? What did I say?"

"Nothing, it's just, this is so normal, imagine that!, us being normal.."

"Take that back Molly Hooper!" he retorted, genuinely affronted, and she giggled and kissed him.

"Indulge me, Sherlock.." she murmured into his mouth, "I am well aware that we, my darling, are anything but 'normal', but, well, it's nice to stop and draw breath for a day or so." He grasped her face gently to look in her eyes as he asked her, concernedly, "is that what you want really Molly, something 'normal'?" and she shook her head emphatically.

"God no! I want you, only you, from the first moment I saw you. You know that." She laughed disparaging then, "'normal' would bore me to death now Sherlock. I just meant it's nice to have you all to myself. You realise that this is the first full day we've really been alone since we've got together? We had one night by ourselves, in that wonderful hotel in Dublin, and then all hell broke loose." Sherlock laughed ruefully.

"I suppose you do have a point at that. It won't be like this for us all the time Molly. I wouldn't like that very much at all." He sighed and started to pull out bowls and cutlery to set the table. "I'd prefer no alcohol for us right now, if that's alright?" She nodded pensively, and his eyes narrowed as he noticed her faraway look. He put glasses and cold bottled water on the table and then he turned off the heat under the simmering dish. "We'll just let that sit for a few minutes." Suddenly, he scooped her up, gripping her around her waist and under her knees and carried her into the living room. Molly gasped in surprise and laughed.

"Sherlock Holmes!" she exclaimed, "what are you doing?" Sherlock sat on the couch, pulling her onto his lap and then peered at her intensely.

"Putting something to rest, for once and for all," he replied firmly. Tapping her forehead with a long index finger he continued, "now tell me Molly, what's going on in there?," she went to shake her head in denial and he placed a gentle finger over her lips, "come on now Molly, you know that's pointless, and I'd prefer you to tell me."

"It's nothing Sherlock, it'll keep." He shook his head, studying her intently.

"Molly, with your profession, you know better than most that life can end very suddenly, accidently, medically, or violently, and at any time. It is very important to me, therefore, that you and I have no secrets, no worries or concerns that we withhold from each other, no matter what else is going on in our lives. Do you understand?" Molly sighed and looked away, deep in thought. She stood up and put some logs on the fire, trying to form the words. Then, turning back to him, she just admitted bluntly,

"I'm afraid you'll break us up someday when you perceive the threat to me to be too great because of our relationship." She took a deep breath, surprised at how nervous she was. He looked at her intently for long moments and then his eyes softened and a small smile played across his lips.

"I had thought I had addressed that fear in Ireland, but clearly, I did not. It's understandable, I suppose, considering how long I left you here, that you would feel insecure. It's unpleasant and corrosive Molly, insecurity, I know, because I worried incessantly that you would not forgive me for that abandonment, and that you'd finish it with me." Molly stared at him, open mouthed in shock.

"You did?" and he nodded. "But that's ridiculous Sherlock, I could never leave you." He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and hands joined under his chin, gazing at her.

"And yet you think that I can leave you?"

"That's different."

"How so?"

"You're stronger then me!" He smiled at her, shaking his head in disbelief.

"This from a woman who kept a vital, life-saving secret for two years, a woman who deals with grieving families every day and still remains upbeat and generally happy. The same woman who suffered a severe assault and then was exiled, and who used that time to improve herself physically and psychologically." He gazed at her proudly as she stood looking down intensely at him, and continued softly, "my woman." Molly's face lit up at that one, and smiling back at her, he continued.

"This is easily resolved actually, if you will just listen to me very clearly. I have no bloody intention of ever breaking us up, no matter what. I want to grow old with you, if we get to be that lucky. Molly, I absolutely refuse to propose to you in an FBI campus, so you'll just have to take my word for now that it is my intention to do just that, and imminently. Now can we let that be an end to my 'leaving you' nonsense, please?"

Molly's heart swelled with joy and she rushed towards him, jumping on him as he laughed and rolled her beneath him. Eyes glistening with happy tears; she held his face in her hands and replied firmly, "yes Sherlock," and he grinned and pulled her in for a deep kiss.

"Good," he said, then, "I'm afraid you're stuck with me Molly Hooper, so you'd better get used to it.." She giggled as she tugged his jumper up and ran her hands up and around his bloody gorgeous torso as she whispered in his ear,

"I'll try to cope, now, arms up Sherlock.." He burst out laughing.

"That's my line Molly!," he declared in mock protest as he duly obliged, pulling his jumper over his head. "I thought you were hungry? He inhaled sharply as she nipped and kissed at his chest. Working her way back up to his mouth she murmured,

"I never said that actually, if you recall," and she ran a firm hand over his jean clad buttocks, sighing happily. Sherlock groaned and nudged her with his hips, kissing her deeply again,

"That's right, you didn't did you?," he growled into her ear as he pulled off her sweatshirt. "Lets eat later, shall we?"

"Oh God yes!" She agreed breathlessly, and she pulled him back to her and pressed her mouth to his.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7  
It was late afternoon before they got to eat the meal Molly had prepared. Hunger pangs drove them out of bed and they chatted and caught up with each others lives as they dined. Sherlock filled her in on the hunt for Sebastian Moran, and the path that had led him to Quantico, and to her. He told her about Michael and how much he'd helped him, gesturing that he was "out there, with the Americans..." which made her giggle. "'Out there' actually is America, Sherlock", and he set his jaw and sighed exaggeratedly.

"That can't be helped, I suppose..."

"Sherlock!" and he grinned boldly at her.

"I concede they've been rather helpful." He laughed and added, "for colonials.." and she spluttered out an outraged laugh.

"Promise me you won't say that to any of them, and, just a gentle reminder dearest, this is the 21st century, not the 18th!" He frowned as if confused and looked at his watch dramatically,

"Is it really?, I slept a lot longer then I thought," making her laugh again. He loved hearing her laugh, especially now, considering how bleak things had been for her, and he smiled fondly at her.

"Perhaps we should have asked Michael for dinner?" she said, and he gave her an incredulous look.

"You're joking!"

"Well he's here on his own," and it was his turn to laugh.

"Have you met Michael? The man could charm the birds off the trees. He won't be lonely Molly. Anyway, were you not celebrating the fact that we are finally alone just a few hours ago?" She nodded and then smirked at him.

"Well, he is very easy on the eye..."

"Molly..." he growled, and she giggled again.

"I'm aware of his similarity to some actor...," he noted, a tad petulantly. Molly popped her eyes and wiggling her eyebrows, she purred "Mmm, Fassbender..," eliciting a spectacular pout from him. Molly grinned and, placing her napkin on the table, she stood up and walked slowly over to him. He tilted his head slightly as he followed her progress. She sat sideways on his lap, hugging his neck while he tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a smirk. Resting her forehead against his she murmured quietly,

"He's not a patch on you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Obviously," he quipped, giving her a quick peck on the lips, and she giggled again, and then hugged him to her, nestling into his neck. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and she sighed contentedly.

"God, I love you Sherlock," she whispered into his ear and he squeezed her tighter, and kissing her neck, he replied,

"Well, you're only human..." and she spluttered, and then laughed so hard her chest shook against his, and he laughed deeply with her. He leaned back and stroking a long index finger along her cheek he said more seriously, "Michael's sorting out a few things for me."

"Oh!" she said, wide eyed, "he's keeping watch on us from somewhere, isn't he?" and he nodded.

"Among other things, yes."

"Tell me?" and he looked intently at her and nodding, he suggested she go into the living room and stoke up the fire while he made coffee. After carrying in their coffee, he settled on the couch and patted the seat beside him, eyebrow cocked suggestively. She smiled widely at him, and plonked down beside him. He wrapped a long arm around her shoulders.

"Mycroft is putting Mary on a plane," he told her. "She should arrive tomorrow evening. We'll be doing a swap. You are getting on that plane and flying back to London where Aoife or Mycroft will collect you and bring you directly to Mycroft's house. Mary will be disguised, as much as possible, as you. Enough to fool Moran from a distance, at any rate. Then Mary and I are leaving here for a romantic break in a very isolated log cabin in West Virginia. Well, along with a lot of armed CIA and FBI agents, and Michael, keeping a discreet distance. The best way of snaring a sniper, Molly, is to trap him in his own net." Molly sat back and stared at him in horror.

"Mary? Mother of a two month old infant, new wife of your best friend Mary? Are you joking?" He frowned at her.

"She's the best Molly, and she doesn't mind!"

"That's neither here nor there Sherlock, and what about John? I bet he bloody minds!"

"He's hardly in a position to 'mind' Molly." She looked at him and shook her head.

"Oh Sherlock, that's not how it goes. Anyway, they never asked you to shoot Magnussen, you made that choice yourself, and she's more than made up for shooting you." She added more softly, "She took out Moriarty's twin, who was in Aoife's house to kill me, remember?" She sat forward to face him and took his hands in hers. "Anyway, your plan is flawed and you know it." His head jolted to her and he frowned.

"Molly...no!"

"It has to be me Sherlock, not Mary, or Moran will not fall for it. Anyway, even if Mary does take part, that's not where her talents lie. She's the sniper, the assassin, and she should be in the woods, hunting him, not sitting idly in a cabin as bait to lure him. Anyway, if you flood the place with agents, he'll spot them a mile away. You know I'm right."

"Molly, I did not leave you here for all that time just to have you placed firmly in the crosshairs now!"

"Oh Sherlock, it was always going to come to this, to use me as bait, we both know that."

"But that's why Mary's coming." She shook her head gently at him.

"It isn't Sherlock. Mary's coming to trap him in the woods and kill him. Is she even fit enough?" He grinned wryly.

"You're not the only one who's been running. She's been lapping around Hyde Park for weeks." Molly smiled.

"See darling? She's been training for this." She paused and then added quietly, "We both have." Sherlock set his jaw stubbornly.

"Not going to happen Molly."

"Well, then your plan won't work Sherlock, and this will drag on and on. You and Mycroft will have to keep on moving me around, and he'll keep on chasing me. It could go on for years, and that is pointless, and I won't be party to it." She sighed and gripped his hand tightly. "Even if I did agree to that, it will ultimately come down to this, to use me as bait, and you will agree to that in the end, because I am right, and there is no other way. So let's not waste any more time Sherlock. I promise to do everything you tell me. Don't worry, I wont be standing at any windows" He dropped his face in his hands and sighed deeply. When he looked back up again his face was the picture of agony.

"I can't Molly. I can't lose you."

"You won't Sherlock. There's four of us and one of him. He'll be tired and he's emotionally involved. He will make a mistake and we will get him. I know it. He is no match for you but you have to snap out of this. If I was any other client you would choose this path. Accept I'm right and start planning accordingly. Please darling!"

"But you're not 'any other client' Molly," Sherlock said firmly, "you are my woman, and you are precious to me. What kind of man uses his own woman as bait to catch a killer?" Molly sighed deeply.

"A pragmatic man, Sherlock." He shook his head though, unable to countenance putting her in harms way. They went back and forth with the debate until he got frustrated and bit out,

"Enough Molly, leave it. I have to think...," so Molly retorted curtly,

"Fine. You do that. I'm going out for a run." She walked into the bedroom and changed into her running gear and he did not follow her. When she returned he was deep in his 'Mind Palace'. 'Ah well', she thought, 'he's thinking about it at least'. She grabbed her keys and her phone and as she pulled out of the drive she contemplated which direction to drive in. She disliked the athletics track intensely. Running around and around an athletics track was boring as hell and it was always packed with other runners. She loved the woods, and its natural running tracks, and she was feeling a little worked up, so she decided to throw caution to the wind. They'd estimated that it would be days before Moran could breach Quantico and she was sick and tired of being told what to do. So, decision made, she drove off towards the site of 'The Body Farm' and the woods.

Michael frowned as he watched Molly pull out of the driveway. Sherlock had not informed him that she was leaving or where she was going. He'd based himself in the house across the street and had almost missed her departure, because he was in the loo. He was just about to turn away from the window to check with Sherlock when he noticed a young man in a track suit jogging by on the footpath, with a German shepherd dog in tow. As the dog ran by a car parked on the road a few houses up, it pulled up sharply, nearly tripping it's owner, and then barked insistently at the car boot. Michael bolted out the door, grabbing his keys and his revolver. "What's the matter with your dog?" he roared at the dog owner, flashing his Interpol ID. The young man looked at him in genuine alarm and his words chilled Michael to the bone. "He's a cadaver dog, man. He's trained to respond like that to a dead body!"

"Call AD McBride right now. Tell him Moran's in the compound. Have you got that?" Without waiting for an answer he turned towards Molly's house. Sherlock flew out the front door and the two men ran to Michaels car. Michael floored the accelerator and the car screeched in protest and then took off at speed, but there was no sign of Molly's car. Reaching a crossroads he jammed on the breaks. "Which way Sherlock? where's she gone?" Sherlock gripped his forehead with his fingers, breathing deeply and trying to control his racing heart. "Sherlock?" Michael shouted.

"The woods Michael, she's gone to the woods," and Michael stared at him incredulously.

"Of course she fucking has!" He tossed his phone at Sherlock as he floored the car again, burning rubber. "Call McBride now! We need all the help we can get!" Sherlock dialled the number but there was no answer. He pulled out his own phone and called Mycroft.

"What's wrong Sherlock?"

"He's in, and I can't reach McBride. Molly's gone to the woods for a run, near the Body Farm and target range. Get a swat team Mycroft, quickly."

"Right. Get after them. Help is coming."

Sherlock hung up the phone and then tried Molly's phone, but it too rang out and he hissed in frustration. She'd put it on silent while he slept. He rapidly fired off a text to her.

 _'Moran right behind you. Run fast, don't stop. Weave around trees. I'm coming Molly._

Minutes later Michael screeched to a halt behind Molly's parked car. Sherlock flew out of the car and scanned it rapidly and his heart sank in his chest. The boot of the car was ajar. Turning to Michael he said grimly, "he hid in the bloody boot. She actually drove him here. I checked that car this morning and it was empty." Michael nodded as they sprinted towards the woods.

"He must have got in while I was with McBride." Sherlock grunted in agreement. Their path ahead diverted into two. Sherlock pointed right to Michael and as he veered to the left path, he said rapidly,

"Be careful Michael, he's highly skilled, but he's approaching fifty years of age so we have more then a decade on him, and he's carrying a rifle, stupidly, but he is, because he's habitual." Michael waved in acknowledgement and ran into the woods. Sherlock ran with long and rapid strides, deliberately blocking the deep anxiety seeping into his heart and mind. He listened intently for any sounds indicating Moran's position and then his heart clenched in his chest as he heard a rifle shot echo through the woods.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8  
Molly was ten minutes into her run when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She was well into her second kilometre and running easily, and her mind was on Sherlock and their disagreement. Running seemed to help her think, she'd discovered, and improved her mood. She understood his position, she mused, but she was very certain that in this case, she was right. She sighed deeply and kept running. Then her phone vibrated again. Frowning, she pulled it out of her pocket. She had a missed call and a text message from him. She immediately felt guilty, concerned he'd think she was ignoring him, and so she slowed her pace and opened the text.

 _'Moran right behind you. Run fast, don't stop. Weave around trees. I'm coming Molly._

Molly's heart leapt with fright and then her weeks of intensive training raced through her head. She dived and rolled automatically, and just as she did, a bullet hit the ground, right where she had been positioned a split second beforehand. She kept moving, rolling herself rapidly along the ground to shelter behind a tree trunk. She felt her heart racing and her breathing accelerate, but she quelled the 'fright mode' just like the FBI trainer had taught her, and instead, she instantly summoned 'fight' and, sucking in her breath, she jumped up and took off rapidly through the trees, doing exactly what Sherlock had told her to do.

Thirty metres behind her, Sebastian Moran stared in shock at her racing off like a gazelle through the trees. He could not quite believe that he had missed. She'd even slowed to look at her bloody phone. He blanched, realising what had happened. Holmes was on to him. That meant his exit plan out of Quantico was compromised. It meant a swat team was scrambling at this very moment, and it meant his target was currently racing through the trees like bloody Usain Bolt. It also meant that Sherlock Holmes was right behind him and he swung around full circle, half expecting to see him standing behind him. He hissed in exasperation, having to make a decision. Go back for Holmes and kill him, or, go after his girlfriend. He thought of Jim and his heart ached and he knew what to do. He turned back in the direction of Molly Hooper.

His target had gained ground in those vital seconds of indecision; a lot of ground. On top of that, he couldn't get a fix on her, because she was ducking and weaving all over the place, so he slung his rifle over his shoulder and increased his pace. Sherlock though, was hot on his heels and unlike Moran, he was gaining ground. Michael had heard the gunshot too, and he changed direction, turning towards the sound of the gunshot. Then he rethought and veered slightly further north, hoping to head him off. He felt sick with fear, that Moran had shot Molly, and then he heard another shot and grinned as he ran. 'Good on you girl!' he thought to himself, 'he bloody missed'. Sherlock heard it too and swallowed a surge of hope and pride as he ran towards the sound.

Molly gasped in shock as the second bullet slammed into the tree trunk, inches away from her ear, causing some bark to ricochet and hit her in the side of her jaw. Her hand flew up to assess the damage and some blood pooled into it. She knew immediately that it wasn't too serious, because of the slow drops of blood, so her arteries were intact. She ducked down and ran hard and fast, wondering darkly whether the next bullet would kill her. On she ran, and she imagined that she could hear him behind her, so certain was she that her luck would run out. She went into a zone of twisting, darting, and weaving, and she knew she was expending an enormous amount of energy, but her adrenaline was right up and it seemed to give her wings. On and on she went, thanking her lucky stars that the track was so meandering, and that the trees provided so much camouflage, and the longer she lasted the more she began to hope that she could outpace Moran.

When she estimated she'd run about 4.5 kilometres, she made a rapid evaluation. She knew the track would soon begin to curve to her right, as It was a circular route, ultimately leading back to the car park. It bordered the 'Body Farm', where cadavers were placed in various stages of decomposition, and was only about two square kilometres, but that terrain had less cover then the woodlands run, so she decided to continue on the running track route and stay among the cover of the trees. So she did, and ran on. Suddenly her feet were pulled from under her and she landed in an undignified heap, bending her knees to break her fall, just like the FBI trainer had drummed into her.

She opened her mouth to gasp and a small hand clamped over her lips. Then Mary Watson whispered in her ear. "Hi Molly, don't say a word and stay down. When I tell you, run twenty metres that way. Mycroft's waiting for you." Molly froze for a split second and threw her arms around her friend. She nodded into her neck and said breathlessly, "He's right behind me, Moran, and Sherlock's right behind him, please don't let him get killed Mary."

"That's why I'm here, my darling. Stay down now." Mary hugged her quickly and then turned and lay on her front and waited, revolver pointed out in front of her. Minutes later Moran thundered into sight, finger on the trigger of his rifle and scanning for Molly. Still Mary waited and he moved forward, straight at her. Just as she took aim, Sherlock's voice rang out from behind him.

"You get one chance to drop your weapon Moran. Just one." Moran froze and then swung around, rifle up and aiming for Sherlock. Two gunshots rang out at the same time, Sherlock's bullet hitting Moran in the heart and Mary's hit him in the back of his head, and he died even before he dropped to the ground. Sherlock ducked behind a tree. "Is that you, Mrs Watson?" Mary stood up and brushed off her clothes dramatically.

"Yes, Mr Holmes, you can come out now." She teased. Then Michael scrambled into the clearing from the east.

"I missed the bloody party, didn't I? Howaya Ninja." He grinned at Mary. She tittered and waved at him in greeting. Mycroft appeared at Molly's side out of nowhere, and kneeling down beside her, he took her chin gently in his hands, rotating her head slightly to examine her jaw. He winced a little and clucked sympathetically.

"That'll bruise badly but it's not fatal, bloody well done Molly!" She smiled weakly at him and lay back flat on the ground, holding her head in her hands and and sucking in deep breaths. Sherlock flew to her side and dropping down to her, he gripped her arms and shook them gently.

"Molly! Are you ok? What's wrong? Are you hurt?" He held up a hand without looking and Mycroft handed him his linen handkerchief. He pressed it against her chin and held it there as Molly's big brown eyes stared at him. "Say something Molly!" he pleaded and she erupted into a smile. Gripping his arms tightly, she whispered breathlessly,

"Give a girl a chance to catch her breath darling, I've just ran my fastest 5K yet." Sherlock expelled an incredulous laugh.

"Molly Hooper, you're bloody fantastic!" They stayed grinning at each other as the swat team swarmed around them. One of the men approached Moran and removed the rifle, which had twisted under his body.

"Sniper down!" he declared, stating the obvious, a statement that Sherlock couldn't resist whispering to Molly and she giggled. McBride arrived and approached Mycroft, smiling at the couple who were still gazing and grinning at each other. He rolled his eyes at Mycroft and the two men laughed.

"Adorable, aren't they?" Mycroft teased, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and then stood up, lifting Molly with him. "About time you showed up brother dear, considering you've been in Quantico all day." Mycroft spluttered back, "You knew?"

"Of course I bloody knew!" His voice softened as he addressed Molly again.

"Can you walk Molly?" She nodded and linked her arm around his for support, because she was beginning to tremble slightly.

"I think the adrenalin is wearing off Sherlock," she whispered to him and he gripped her around the waist. As they turned to leave, the men of the swat team stood ramrod straight and began to clap for Molly. To a man, they knew that she had outrun a world class sniper for five long kilometres, and they honoured her bravery. A lump rose in Sherlock's throat and Molly blushed, tears pooling in her eyes. She turned and beamed at them all, deeply touched, and then Sherlock led her through the Body Farm and over to a waiting ambulance.

"Just let them give you the once over Molly." She shook her head and he sighed in exasperation.

"No Sherlock, I just want to go home with you. Can you ask the others to call in when they're finished? I want to see everyone and I want to hold your hand. That's all I want."

"Alright Molly. Whatever you say." He stopped and pulled her firmly into his arms, and holding her tightly, he kissed the crown of her head. She felt him shudder, and she gripped him tightly, resting her head on his chest for long minutes.

"I'm alright Sherlock, really I am. You saved me, darling. I got your text, I reacted instantly and dropped, and he fired and missed." She shuddered in his arms and looked up at him. "Imagine that! The difference a split second can make." She gulped back tears then as the reality of what she had so narrowly escaped hit her. "That would have been his kill shot Sherlock. After that first miss he scrambled and he failed." Sherlock looked down at her and gripped her face in his hands, thumbing away errand tears.

"It was that close? Christ Molly! I'm sorry, so sorry." She shook her head adamantly.

"No! Don't you apologise to me. We did it Sherlock. We beat the bastard." He shook his head in denial.

"No. You did it Molly."

"Yes, I did, but I would be dead now without you." She sighed in frustration. "You have to stop blaming yourself for everything that happens to me Sherlock. You advised me to train in self defence and to start running. I took that advice and I outran a killer, a killer you warned me was coming." She laughed gently. "You can't be with me all the time and I've got pretty adept at looking after myself." He laughed ruefully.

"That you have." He turned her then to walk towards the military vehicle ahead, snaking a supportive arm around her waist, and hugged her tightly to him as they approached the SUV. "You never cease to amaze me Molly. I'm incredibly proud of you, you know."

"Thank you. You know something Sherlock? I'm pretty proud of myself." As he helped her climb into the car she gasped suddenly, and gave him her 'Molly smile,' the one that he adored, all doe eyed and dimples. "Oh!" she exclaimed with glee, "do you know what this means?" and he chuckled as he snapped her seatbelt on.

"Yes my darling, we're going back to Ireland."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Sherlock and Molly said very little on the short journey back to the house. Truthfully, Sherlock was still reeling at just how close he had come to losing her. This situation with Sebastian Moran had been an ordeal for both of them since it's onset, particularly for Molly, but the knowledge that she had come within a split second of being shot dead had hit him hard though, and a plethora of emotions swamped him. He knew he would have to allow them to settle before he could review the whole case more objectively, to see why it had gone so badly wrong.

Moran had been more cunning then they'd estimated. He'd also got into the compound far too easily, and an innocent agent had died, but that was for Quantico to address. Quite simply, Mycroft and himself had overestimated the security, and that part was for them both to review and analyse; but it was not for today. Today, or what was left of it, was for Molly. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders in the back of the car. McBride's driver was discreet and blessedly silent.

When they arrived on Molly's street, the military police and FBI were still processing the scene of the crime a little up the road, and Sherlock reckoned they had a couple of hours before the others were cleared to leave the scene in the woods too. Molly could give her statement in the morning, or never, as far as he was concerned. She saw the activity though, and the car boot open, and she looked up at him in horror. "Oh God no Sherlock! It was him, wasn't it?" He nodded grimly at her.

"FBI Agent. He got him outside, assumed his identity, and drove right in. He made a big mistake though. He left him in the boot. If it wasn't for a cadaver dog, well, we could have had a very different outcome this evening." Molly looked stricken.

"This is all my fault!"

"No Molly," he asserted firmly, "it isn't. It's like you've just said to me, that Moran nearly killing you isn't my fault either. The agent was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he paid the price." Molly sighed sadly and nodded in acceptance. She took his hand and walked into the house. He closed the door behind them and swooped her up in his arms, carrying her into the living room and plonking down on the couch with her on his lap. Molly wriggled in his grasp.

"Don't Sherlock, I'm all sweaty." He pulled her closer against him.

"Don't be ridiculous Molly," he huffed, and she giggled and snuggled into him.

"Oh well, don't say you weren't warned!" He just shook his head dismissively and dropped a kiss on her forehead. Molly's phone's text alert beeped and she pulled it out of her jacket.

"Oh, it's Sheila. She wants to know will she come over with provisions for everyone? Is it ok with you Sherlock, to have people around this evening?" He answered her immediately.

"Of course it is Molly," he murmured into her hair. "It's becoming something of a ritual," he mused wryly, "the gathering of family and friends after the culmination of a case. I'll text Michael to pick up some things too, en route. He wont mind. I don't want to go out again. I'd like to stay home with you."

"Sounds lovely to me. It's a pity John and Aoife aren't here though." Sherlock smiled to himself. She stroked his chest tenderly. "It's beginning to sink in; that the danger is over."

"However shall we cope Molly? Alone together for a week in Ireland without a psychopathic killer in tow?" She spluttered out a laugh.

"Oh, I can think of a few things to distract us..." She grinned up at him, eyes sparkling. "I'd love us to go out to dinner somewhere ridiculously posh, maybe in Dublin? I want to wear my Herve Leger dress again, without the 'Cinderella' factor, thank you very much!" She frowned then, "Oh, is it in London?" He smiled broadly at her, loving her enthusiasm.

"It's lying on our bed in Aoife's house, exactly where I left it, awaiting your return Molly." She looked up knowingly at him.

"That night I had to leave wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs for you either, my love, was it?" She asked him softly. He laughed ruefully.

"That could be the understatement of the year Molly." She giggled.

"Well it's only March!" She climbed out of his lap, laughing at his pretence at restraining her.

"Right, that's enough, I have to have a shower." He watched her as she left the room and listened to the sounds of her preparing to wash. He sat back in the chair and stretched his arms, entwining his fingers at the back of his head. He let out a deep and relieved sigh, and just as he was considering how much he hated her being out of his sight, she arrived back to stand in the door frame, stark naked, with her hand cocked cheekily on her hip.

"Well?" She raised an eyebrow, "aren't you coming?" She turned around and walked back towards the bedroom, offering him a delectable view of her arse. Sherlock grinned, leapt out of his chair, and was onto her in seconds. He swept her up in his arms, laughing deeply, and kicking off his shoes, he carried her straight into the shower as she squealed with laughter. "You're getting soaked Sherlock!"

"Don't care," he growled as he pulled her face towards him and kissed her deeply on the mouth. "Christ Molly, you're incredible..." She laughed as she tugged his soaking jumper over his head.

"Look who's talking! She pulled the t-shirt over his head and ran her hands greedily along his chest. He grabbed her to him and stroked his way down her back, before gripping her ass firmly. She moaned and tugged his jeans open. "Lets get these out of the way.." He shook his head and palmed her breast.

"No time Molly, we'll have bloody guests arriving in about fifteen minutes."

"What! I thought they'd be ages yet!" He chuckled, and he couldn't resist kissing her mouth again.

"That kind of depends on who you were expecting..." She looked up at him confused; indecision racing across her face, and then she smirked boldly at him, freed him from his trousers and gripped his shoulders.

"We'll have to be quick so." Sherlock grinned boldly at her and seized her by her buttocks.

"Get up here then, Molly," and as he lifted her she wrapped her legs around his hips, and reaching down between them, she sheathed herself on him, sighing contentedly as she felt him deep inside her. He turned her and pressed her against the tiles, warm water pouring down his back, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. Shifting her hips and rocking very slightly, she rested her forehead against his and murmured to him,

"I love this, Sherlock, I love how it feels to have you inside me. Don't you?" Sherlock spluttered with laughter.

"Well, I'd love to stop and chat Molly, but we're kind of on a deadline here.." and he began to trust up into her, rendering her temporarily speechless.

He was so deceptively strong, she thought, how he could raise and lower her so steadily and effortlessly, and she moved with him, and he locked his eyes on hers as he drove her to climax, knowing he would never ever tire of hearing her crying out his name as she came. He followed her soon after and she kissed his mouth as he shuddered his release inside her. As he quickly washed her hair, an action which was fast becoming a ritual for them both, he swallowed back a large lump in his throat, knowing that he loved this woman beyond all reason. He'd be sure to tell her later, he thought, as he wrapped her up in a fluffy towel and sneaked another kiss before turning her and propelling her out of the bathroom.

"Quickly Molly, they'll be here in five minutes!" She flew out of the bathroom as he peeled off his sopping jeans and socks. He scooped his other wet clothes off the floor and ran a fresh towel over the wet tiles quickly, dumping them all into the laundry basket. He grinned to himself, hearing her muttered expletives as she dragged a dress out of the wardrobe,

"Who is 'they' Sherlock?" She exclaimed, but he'd stepped back into the shower to wash his own hair, either that or, she thought suspiciously, Mr Supersonic Ears was ignoring her. She towel dried her hair and pulled on her underwear, and just as she pulled her tight black dress down to her knees, there was a knock on the front door. She rapidly dragged a hairbrush through her hair and ran to answer it, checking through the spy hole first, and squealed in delight at the smiling woman behind it. She flung the door open and threw her arms wide. "Aoife! Oh my God!" Aoife Quinn rushed to her and hugged her tightly.

"Hello Molly. I've come to fly you home," she laughed, and then said, "I've brought someone with me, he's looking for his wife.." and a grinning John Watson stepped in behind her with his arms open for her and she flew into them, laughing with joy. Sherlock smiled in the bathroom as he heard her. John kissed her cheek and then, ever the doctor, he checked out her jaw.

"That's a bad knock Molly, are you hurt anywhere else?" She shook him off.

"No, no John, I'm absolutely fine. Where's baby Fionnuala?" He smiled apologetically at her.

"In London, sorry Molly. Mrs Hudson is minding her in Mycroft's house. Where's Lover Boy?" She giggled.

"He's just dressing."

"He's right here, and I'll have less of that 'Lover Boy' nonsense, John Watson." Sherlock's grin belied his words and he held out a hand to John and shook it, then kissed Aoife fondly on the cheek. Molly looked him up and down and spluttered out an exasperated laugh, crossing her arms and shaking her head in indignation. He was pristine, dressed head to toe in a 'Sherlock' suit, bloody tight purple shirt and all. He gave her his best innocent look. "What?" Aoife laughed out loud and kissed his cheek.

"Come on you, brat, help me unload the car. We're having a party!" He let her drag him out the door towards her car but not before quipping,

"Careful Aoife, your Irish is showing!" She laughed gaily as she led him to the car. "Watch it you, anyway, you'll be spending a lot of time there, I'm thinking, if Molly has her way." Sherlock smiled,

"That's not an entirely unappealing thought Aoife," he said more seriously, and she stopped at the car and turned to look at him.

"You can stay in my house in Wicklow as long as you like, Sherlock. I'm busy with yours, and very happy staying with Mycroft, especially now that we have Molly back." He smiled at her and loped an arm across her shoulders, giving her an affectionate squeeze.

"Happy with Mycroft, is that even possible?" and he mock shuddered, making her roll her eyes and laugh. She punched him gently on the arm.

"You two are fooling nobody, just so you know...!" He smirked as he turned to lift bags of groceries out of the car, glancing up sharply as a car swept up the driveway, and then relaxed as he recognised Sheila. Dropping the bags in the hallway he turned to greet her. The tall athletic brunette gave him a big toothy grin.

"You must be Lover Boy!" and he clenched his jaw and grimaced, hearing John snorting behind him. Then Molly, his Molly, appeared from behind him and slipped her hand into his. Smiling widely at Sheila she said, "this is Sherlock Holmes, Sheila," and Sherlock relaxed and shook Sheila's hand, and thanked her for taking care of Molly for him, "when he could not." She smiled at him and said it was a pleasure then grinning at Molly, she winked and said,

"he's a keeper, Molly!"

They gathered in the kitchen, setting out the food, chatting and catching up and soon the others joined them, Michael arriving with two violin cases tucked under his arm, and Sherlock's eyes lit up. He turned to grin excitedly at Molly and caught her looking at him from across the room. He raised a bold brow and winked at her and she blushed, much to his delight. He rolled his eyes towards the bedroom and she laughed and excusing herself, she went in. Sherlock eased himself across the room and followed her and John snorted.

"Are you two still at that?" Mary, though, shushed him.

"Let them be John." She said gently and he turned to her and pulled her to him, whispering in her ear, "are you done now Mary? Can you please go back into retirement?" and she looked at her kind and anxious husband and answered him with one word.

"Happily."

Molly turned towards Sherlock as he closed the door behind him. She smiled at him and tilted her head curiously.

"What is it Sherlock? Are you OK?" He gazed at her and nodded, and couldn't find the words he sought, so he opened his arms wide and she walked straight into them and tilted her head up to look at him, reaching up to hold his face in her hands as he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

"I know," she whispered and kissed him softly. "I know."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The evening wore on and the atmosphere was easy and relaxed, filled with banter, gentle teasing and laughter. Their friends were relieved and happy to witness the reunion of Sherlock and Molly and those emotions spilled over into the room. The nature of her departure from Ireland, and their forced separation, had upset each one of them. With the exception of the McBrides, the people gathered in Molly's temporary home had been privy to the blossoming of Molly and Sherlock's relationship in Ireland. To have their friends' happiness shattered so suddenly and unexpectedly was difficult for all of them. Therefore, if Molly found it difficult to take her eyes off Sherlock for more than a minute at a time, or if Sherlock kept her glued to his side, pouting immediately (and pretty spectacularly) if she moved too far away from him for any reason, they held their tongues and smiled knowingly and indulgently at each other.

The ones who knew Sherlock the longest, Mycroft and John, were particularly taken by how tactile he was being with her. It was, they said to each other quietly, as if he had to keep touching her to reassure himself that she was really there. He would cover her hand with his, or grip her knee, or run his fingers swiftly across her back or shoulders, anything to physically confirm her presence beside him. Molly was not much better. She'd squeeze his hand, or link his arm, or stroke his back, as she conversed and laughed with her friends. Mycroft observed it all and worried, once again, for his brother, knowing that the loss of Molly would end him.

Pouring drinks from the kitchen, he watched his brother's animated face and easy smile, so unusual for him given the number of people in the room, and especially considering how uncomfortable he could be at social gatherings. He frowned worriedly and vowed again to protect the two of them with every resource at his disposal. He felt Aoife's calming presence approach behind him and then her arms wrap around his waist."Hello there," she murmured into his back. He put the bottle of whiskey down and turned to smile at her, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her flush against him. He ran a hand through her glossy auburn hair, tucking an errand strand behind her ear, and smiled in satisfaction as he felt her pulse leap under his fingers.

"Hello beautiful," he responded gently, and sharp green eyes glistened up at him.

"I saw that frown, Mycroft Holmes. You really must stop worrying now, darling," she said, running her hands up his arms, "Sherlock's fine; they're both fine. That's the most I've seen him smile since he won the play off with Michael, just before everything went to hell." She ran a hand tenderly across his cheek and continued. "He's just asked if he can take her back to my house in Wicklow. It's a great idea and I'm kind of flattered, to tell you the truth. It's what they need most now, to spend some time alone together. My security can keep a discreet eye on them. Although, you know Mycroft, from what I've seen and know about Sherlock, he can take care of himself and Molly." She paused, stroking his shoulders absentmindedly, and then grinned happily at him. "I'm really glad that they still love the house. I was afraid, after all that happened there, that they'd never want to return to Ireland, but happily, that's not the case at all."

Mycroft studied the stunning woman in front of him and realised that she was right, that Sherlock was more than capable of protecting himself and Molly and they badly needed to just spend some time alone together as a couple after all that they had been through. He felt a pang of guilt, as he held Aoife firmly by the waist, that her own plans to be with him had been so side-lined. Worse then that, he thought, he had neglected her, neglected them, caught up as he had been in the mammoth effort to capture Moran.

She had moved to London, at his request, to spend some time with him, and since then they'd spent all of their time working to help Sherlock. She had not once complained to him about it, on the contrary, she had been nothing but supportive and useful. It couldn't have been avoided, with Molly being in such a precarious position, and Sherlock so miserable, but now he could and should focus on Aoife. She deserved it, she deserved better. He mentally flashed through his diary for the next week or so and decided to shift things around and spend the time with her, like he'd promised her he would when they got together. She'd been remarkably patient, very concerned about Sherlock and Molly herself, but it was time for them to be with each other properly now too.

"You're absolutely right Aoife. I'm taking a week off, as and from now. Where in the world would you like to go?" Aoife beamed with delight and threw her arms around his neck, squinting her eyes thoughtfully as she speculated. Then she laughed and shook her head.

"London, Mycroft! I want you to show me your London." He laughed as he tilted his head to kiss her.

"It would be my pleasure, Ms Quinn." Aoife kissed him back with gusto, and hugged his neck. Then she whispered seductively in his ear,

"I can guarantee you that, Mr Holmes." He laughed, and turned to kiss her again, when Sherlock's gravelly baritone rumbled through the living room and into the kitchen.

"Unhand that poor woman, brother mine, and come in here. Michael is going to play for us now, are you not, Michael?" Mycroft, Michael and Aoife spluttered with laughter in unison at the sheer audacity of that comment. Michael grinned at him.

"Alright then Sherlock, since you've asked so nicely." He smirked pointedly at Molly, glancing at her hand which was, at that very moment, lightly stroking Sherlock's thigh. "Maybe you'll accompany me if Molly can release you for a little while?" Molly blushed furiously and attempted to remove her hand but Sherlock was having none of it. His hand snapped down to cover hers and keep it on his leg.

"Certainly Michael, but I don't play the violin with my thigh so Molly's hand is fine where it is, thank you." Molly gasped and blushed red in embarrassment, hiding her face in his shoulder as the entire room laughed uproariously at his comment. Sherlock looked at them all curiously, nose wrinkled in confusion. "What? I'm serious!" John wiped a tear from his eyes as he tried to answer.

"Yeah, we know mate, that's what's so funny!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to subdue a reluctant smirk, and wrapping a protective arm around Molly's waist, he plonked a kiss on her head as she continued to hide her face. He laughed and nudged her gently.

"You can come out now Molly..." but she shook her head, the tip of her ear a delightful shade of pink, making him laugh even more. "Don't mind him Molly. Have I told you about him and the lovely Garda O'Brien?" Michael quickly grabbed his violin up and began to play, the two men smirking at each other. As the opening notes of 'The Long and Winding Road' floated through the room though, Molly quickly spun around and beamed at Michael, snaking an arm across Sherlock's waist and tucking herself under his arm. He had chosen to play the song that Sherlock had dedicated to her, played for her, on their last night in Ireland, right before they'd been parted from each other. Sherlock tilted his head and nodded slightly in acknowledgement at Michael. He may have taken an extra deep breath as he held her to him, but if Molly noticed, she wasn't going to let on.

Michael had a real gift for the instrument, Sherlock thought. Not for nothing was he the Irish champion fiddle player for five years. The friends listened in rapt silence to the evocative music. As the song drew to a close Molly tilted her head up to look at him, big doe eyes brimming with emotion, and he had to kiss her then, public displays of affection bedamned. She kissed him back and then giggled at the exaggerated groans in the room.

"Oh shut up the lot of you, I've just got him back!" She laughingly protested. Then Aoife got to her feet. "Quite right too, let them be, the lot of you. Actually, I would like to raise a toast to you both, especially to you Molly." She raised her glass and everyone followed suit as the couple smiled happily. "Slán abhaile Molly, agus sláinte. Welcome home Molly, and good health to you." The friends clinked glasses, and when Michael echoed "sláinte," the rest of the group repeated it with gusto and drank from their glasses.

Michael played an assortment of pieces and Sherlock accompanied him on occasion while the friends conversed. Aoife made sure to update Molly on the 221B refurbishment and promised to email her photo's and updates while she was with Sherlock in Ireland. The lab, she said, was pretty much agreed but she'd need her input on the new kitchen and interiors. Molly frowned in concern.

"Oh Aoife, I'm sorry, I'll have to talk with Sherlock. He so loves Baker Street the way it is. I don't want to change it or make it unrecognisable to him. I've never lived there so it would be strange for me to make decisions around the interior design." Aoife agreed and reassured her that the place could be redocorated entirely in sympathy to its current 'eclatic' look, utilising all of the original fixtures and fittings. Nothing would be done without their say so, except what had already been agreed with Sherlock, she promised, much to Molly's relief.

Aoife and Mycroft were the first to leave, as she was piloting them home herself the next morning she wasn't having alcohol and needed to be rested for the trip. Noticing Molly's stifled yawns, the others soon followed, bidding them goodnight and arranging to reunite on the runway in the morning. John and Mary hugged them both as they left, perhaps a little more tightly than usual, much to Sherlock's chagrin, and Molly giggled at his reaction as he finally closed the front door behind them. He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation and then, leaning languidly back against it, he folded his arms and raised a cocky brow at Molly.

"Alone at last, Dr Hooper," he purred at her and she felt his deep voice reverberate through her, all the way down to her toes. She inhaled sharply and sucked in her bottom lip, nipping it with her teeth as she gazed up at him, in a gesture that would forever be his Molly's, and always make his heart beat a little faster. He held a hand, rather commandingly, out to her and she couldn't help it, she rushed into his arms, heart racing and welling up with emotion.

He grabbed her tightly and then cupped her face firmly with his hands, smirking possessively at her before tilting his head and capturing her mouth, and she gasped and grabbed the front of his shirt tightly in her fists, opening her mouth to let him in. And in he went, hot and demanding and she groaned and slumped against him, hanging on for dear life and responding desperately to him. Every part of her reacted intensely to him and she ached with the need to have him. Eventually he pulled his mouth from hers, sucked in oxygen in rapid heated breaths, and reigned hard hot kisses down the side of her neck, nipping slightly at her clavicle.

"Sherlock.." she pleaded and he tugged her head back to look at her, her hair entwined tightly in his long fingers.

"Exactly how tired are you?" he all but growled at her. She shook her head rapidly in response.

"I'm not!" she gasped out, and without another word he reached down and gripping the hem of her dress with both hands, lifted it straight over her head and threw it on the floor.

"Good, glad to hear it," and her knees almost buckled from under her, "because I've wanted you for hours," he said, as he caught hold of her and swept her up in his arms. Molly wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders as he strode determinedly into the bedroom with her, and as she moaned into his neck, she responded,

"You can have me; you can always have me Sherlock."

Sherlock froze for just a second and then tossing her on the bed, he watched her as she pulled off her blue satin bra. He gripped her hips firmly and tugged her matching knickers down her legs, seeing how ready she was for him. He made short work of his own clothes and gripping her by her ankles he pulled her towards him as she wrapped them around his hips. "Please Sherlock, now, please!" He leaned down over her, sliding his hands under her shoulder blades and lifting her, raising her breasts up to him. As he claimed her hard nipple with his mouth, sucking it fiercely, he shifted his hips and thrust firmly into her over and over until she fell apart under him. As her body clenched him even more tightly he groaned out her name, resting his forehead on hers as he released inside her. Finally he answered her.

"And you will always have me, Molly. Always." He pulled her up the bed with him and wrapped her tightly in his arms, throwing the duvet over the two of them. "Sleep now my love, and when you wake in the morning, we leave for Ireland." Molly lay her head on his chest and wrapping her arms around him, she sighed happily and closed her eyes to sleep, soothed by his hand stroking her hair.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The return flight to London, via Dublin, was routine and pretty uneventful. The group were all happy to be going home, and at the same time very grateful to their American friends and allies for all they'd done to help them. Michael slept soundly from take off. It appeared he'd found another party last night and was a little tired, much to Sherlock's amusement. Molly had moved seat a few hours into the flight and was chatting happily with Mary and John; baby stuff, he figured, judging by the sharing of photo's on phones and Molly's gooing.

Adding up all the times since he'd been reunited with her that they'd both almost ignored contraception, he winced to himself and then grinned. He knew she had an IUD but they'd better have a conversation soon. Although he wasn't adverse to the idea of having children with Molly, he would like her to himself first, at least for a year or so. He wanted her to get used to him, and all his idiosyncrasies, because he knew well enough how challenging he would be. He would determine to do his best but he knew he wasn't easy and he felt a year together was important for them both. She was only thirty two so there was plenty of time.

He realised he had never heard her actually express her on opinion on having a family, but he long knew it was something she wanted. He shook his head ruefully. Who was he kidding? If Molly told him she was pregnant, or that she would like to be pregnant, he would go along with it happily, which was exactly why he was so complacent about it. Security, as always, would be an issue, but it was not insurmountable.

Catching his expression, she tilted her head quizzically at him, and he raised a bold brow, smirked and then winked at her. She blushed furiously and then stifled a laugh. He smiled back at her, holding her eyes for a long moment. He could hardly wait until they landed in Ireland and he could have her all to himself, and judging by the way Molly had just subconsciously licked her lips, she was thinking along the same lines. Three hours twenty seven minutes to go...

Mycroft sat up in the cockpit with Aoife, acting as co-pilot for her when required, dictating his final report on the demise of Sebastian Moran when his services weren't needed. He was aware of Sherlock's issue with the inaccuracy of the intelligence regarding the security at Quantico and he shared those concerns, as did McBride, but the issue had to be handled delicately. 'Delicacy' and his brother did not go hand in hand though. He laughed to himself. Perhaps, he thought, he'd be distracted enough with Molly in Ireland not to cause a diplomatic incident until he could resolve the issue with the Americans. He'd spent hours working on just that with AD McBride and the Director of the FBI last late last night and Aoife was fast asleep when he got in. It was another opportunity to make amends for his neglect missed. He let out a heavy sigh.

Aoife looked sideways at him curiously and then smiled broadly at him, and he returned it in kind, leaning over to kiss her. She was lighter in herself, he thought, ever since the soiree last night, smiling more naturally, and far more chatty and animated then she had been for weeks. How had he not noticed how subdued, how restrained she'd been, he remonstrated with himself, and grimaced visibly at the answer. Because he wasn't paying attention, and that simply wasn't good enough. He cleared his throat, trying to find the best way to tackle the subject. "Aoife?"

"Hmm?" she replied, distracted.

"I owe you a huge apology, my darling." She turned her head swiftly to look at him, wrinkling her nose in confusion.

"No you don't. Whatever makes you say that?" He sighed gently and shook his head at her slowly.

"Hear me out Aoife, please, ok?" She frowned apprehensively and nodded.

"You moved home and country only two months ago, to share your life with me, and I did not make myself available to you, when I promised you faithfully that I would. Indeed, that was part of your conditions for moving, if I recall correctly. I failed to keep my word to you. There were days and nights where I didn't even see you or converse with you and that is unforgivable. I will do better Aoife." Aoife sighed in exasperation, and thanked God silently for autopilot. She turned in her seat to look at him.

"You decide to have this conversation while I'm flying a plane? Fine," she smiled fondly, and continued, "but we're doing this my way. Answer me with 'yes' or 'no' only, agreed?"

"Aoife.." She shook her head firmly.

"Yes or no, Mycroft!" She admonished him and he grimaced and then reluctantly agreed.

"Right, shall we begin?" It wasn't a question. "Do you know me?" she asked. He responded with a deep sigh accompanied by a very dramatic eye roll.

"Yes."

"Are you sure about that?" His lips twitched, suppressing a smile.

"Yes."

"Good. Then tell me, am I the shy and retiring type?" Even the idea of that elicited a half smile from Mycroft.

"No."

"Am I unassertive?" His smile grew broader.

"No." She began to smirk in amusement.

"Have I, since I moved to London, manifested any sign of unhappiness or malcontent?"

"No."

"Good answer. I believe we're getting somewhere...," and he sputtered out a laugh. Aoife grinned and continued.

"Now, my darling man, do I understand the concept of 'family'?" Mycroft turned fully in his seat to face her, placing his elbows on his knees and his fingers interlinked under his chin as he looked lovingly at her. He answered her quietly and firmly.

"Yes." She leaned over and kissed him tenderly on the lips.

"Is Sherlock Holmes my family now, and Molly, as his partner?" He laughed and rolled his eyes.

"Yes." She paused and then asked him quietly then,

"Am I completely and utterly besotted with you, you silly man?" He sucked in a sharp breath and leaning over, cupped her face in his long hands.

"My turn Aoife." and she smiled, and turning her head, kissed into his palm. Mycroft smiled in response, then tilted her face gently back to look into her eyes and murmured,

"Do you have any idea just how much I love you?"

She gasped and her eyes welled with emotion, some tears escaping down her face, and he wiped them away tenderly with his thumbs. They hadn't used the 'L' word yet, not the actual word. She'd been waiting for the right moment, and damn him, he'd found it. It was perfect. She threw her arms around him and hugged his neck and then kissed him passionately. When they finally broke apart he laughed teasingly,

"You haven't answered me, Aoife. Yes or no?" And she giggled delightedly at him and replied vehemently,

"Yes!" He ran an index finger lovingly along her jaw and asked her then,

"And do you love me?" She caressed his face and her voice broke as she replied,

"Yes, oh yes Mycroft." He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. She kissed him back and then sighed and pulled back to check the instrument panel, but placed a hand on his thigh, gently stroking it.

"Would you like me to take you out to dinner tonight?" he asked her, determined to spoil her and do whatever she wanted for their week off. She laughed and turning to him again, she gave him a very seductive look from under her lashes.

"Are we still on 'yes or no' answers?" He chuckled and shook his head.

"You and I are going straight to bed after takeaway fish and chips tonight, my love." Mycroft chuckled and pretended to be appalled.

"Oh goody," and she snorted with laughter.

"How in the name of God did I get involved with such an upper class English toff?" and he laughed back and responded,

"Oh I made sure of it, my dear!" and she burst out laughing.

"You keep on thinking that darling!" and he threw his head back and laughed in return. Smiling contentedly, he placed a hand on her knee and went back to his report.

Aoife touched down smoothly in Baldonnel military airport to offload Molly, Sherlock and Michael. Two members of her private security firm were waiting to collect them and transport them to her home in Wicklow, dropping Michael off at his home first. Molly felt quite emotional saying goodbye to everybody, and she welled up when even Mycroft gave her a warm hug goodbye and instructed her to 'keep him out of trouble, for God's sake!,' which made her giggle and Sherlock sigh exaggeratedly.

The evening was drawing in and he was anxious to get to the house. He placed his arm around Molly's waist and declared to all and sundry, "yes, yes, goodbye everybody, we'll be in touch. Thank you all. Bye now!" His friends laughed good naturedly at his impatience and Mary drew him in to a hug. Gripping him by his elbows then, she said,

"you take care of Molly, and yourself. No bloody cases Sherlock, if you can avoid it. I'd like my husband for a while, ok?" Sherlock chuckled and kissed her cheek fondly.

"He's all yours, I promise." John protested half heartedly.

"I'm right here you know!" He shook his friend's hand and then admonished him, "behave yourself now Sherlock, we'll be checking with Molly!" Sherlock smirked and responded with an impish,

"I'll be a good boy, I promise John!" and John laughed exasperatedly at him. Michael called them from the open car,

"Come on now lad's, hurry up! I'm wreaked, I need my bed!" Sherlock laughed heartily and whispered loudly into Molly's ear, "oh, me too..." and she blushed scarlet, and propelling him down the steps of the plane, she pulled him after her into the car, their friends laughter ringing around the Irish twilight. Their car cleared security rapidly and forty minutes later, after they'd offloaded Michael, who promised to be in touch in a few days, they finally reached the ornate wrought iron gates of Aoife's manor house. Sherlock squeezed Molly's hand and she unclipped her seatbelt and launched herself at him as the car moved slowly up the gravel drive. As he pulled her into his arms she beamed at him, with that smile that lit her eyes and dimpled her face.

"Oh Sherlock! I can hardly believe that we're really here." Her voice trembled with emotion and he gripped her tighter.

"Well, believe it Molly. We are. I'm so sorry it took so long, but we are back, at last."

The driver and his partner looked at each other, smiling at the couple's enthusiasm, as the car reached the front door of the house. The door opened on cue, and Marie, Aoife's housekeeper and cook, stepped out to greet them. (Sherlock noted with relief that her coat was on.)

"Hello you two, tis lovely to see you both. Welcome back. The fire is lighting and the dinners sorted. The fridge is fully stocked too, so you'll be fine for a few days. My number is on the fridge if you need me."

Sherlock unloaded their luggage from the boot, while thanking her, and she climbed into the back of the car. The driver helped carry the luggage into the hall and Sherlock conferred briefly with the security team, agreeing to allow a team of two to patrol the estate at all times, but that they would confine themselves to the security hut and he would cover the house. Then he grabbed a shivering Molly's hand, and as they climbed the granite steps into the house, he closed the door firmly behind him.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

As the door closed behind her, Molly stood in the large hall of the manor house, hugging herself with her arms to warm up and allow the heat of the house to seep through. She had stood outside a little too long without her coat. Sherlock wrapped a long arm around her and pulled her into his warm chest, chiding her gently. "Molly Hooper, your jacket is not solely for decorative purposes." Molly smiled boldly and tugging his shirt out of his trousers, she placed a very cold hand on his lower back. He jolted exaggeratedly and trapped her hand in his.

"If you'd like me to heat you up Dr Hooper, you only have to ask," he drawled as he placed her hand on his chest and began to walk her very slowly backwards. Molly began to flush rather deliciously, he thought, as she grabbed his bicep with her other hand for balance. She started to giggle as he gently nibbled at her earlobe.

"I thought you knew everything Sherlock, therefore, why would I have to ask?"

Not an unreasonable argument, he thought, as he pressed her up against the living room door. She nuzzled into his neck but shuddered slightly and he grew slightly concerned. He looked down at her quizzically.

"Are you ok Molly?"

She looked up at him and nodded and then shivered again. He frowned and opening the door, he ushered her into the room and over to the deep armchair beside the roaring fire. He grabbed the throw from the couch and wrapped that around her too. Crouching down, he tugged her leather boots off and rubbed her feet with his hands. "Christ Molly, you're freezing. I don't understand, you were only out of the car for about five minutes?" He looked up at her anxiously as she cuddled into the throw and curled her feet underneath herself.

"I'm really fine Sherlock, don't fret. Sometimes I get really cold when I'm tired and hungry." He expelled a relieved breath.

"Hungry, right. You stay here, and I see what gastronomic delight Marie has prepared for us."

She smiled down at him, holding his eyes for a long moment. Then she reached out and ran her fingers softly along his cheekbone.

"Thank you for bringing me back here, Sherlock." He took her hand and kissed the knuckles tenderly.

"Oh Molly, I've been looking forward to this every bit as much as you have, more, if possible." She smiled at his earnest face.

"It's going to be so great, Sherlock," she said and he grinned, remembering her saying that to him before, in this very house, and he knew, just as he did then, that she wasn't just referring to their next week here in Ireland.

"It already is," he affirmed, placing a swift kiss on her lips. "You stay here and warm up and I'll bring in our supper, alright Molly?"

She nodded and curled up on the chair, sighing contently. As he got to the door he couldn't resist turning back to look at her again and he caught her gazing after him with what could only be described as an adoring expression on her face. He winked boldly at her and then smirked as the blush rose on her cheeks, loving the visible evidence of the effect he had on her. Then he murmured to her softly, "the feeling is mutual Molly," and she smiled delightedly at him. Grinning, he left the room to go to the kitchen to find dinner.

Marie, true to her word, had left a cottage pie cooling in the oven. It smelled delicious and he began to feel hungry. He was exactly what they both fancied eating. He turned on the kettle and smiled in gratification at the tray already set on the kitchen table. He chuckled to himself, determined to tell Mrs Hudson all about Aoife's housekeeper, knowing it would wind her up.

While he waited for the kettle to boil he sent a reminder text to Mycroft to perform the DNA analysis on the samples he took from Moriarty Senior in the nursing home. He wanted to confirm his identity and close the Moriarty case, hopefully forever. He'd entrusted them to his brother because he didn't want to wait, and the temporary lab that Aoife had set up in this house was long gone. Within a minute Mycroft replied.

' _Already on the way to Mike Stamford at Barts. He has the Moriarty families DNA files there already. I do hope that meets with your approval?'_ He rolled his eyes.

 _'Fine Mycroft. Let me know ASAP please?'_

 _'Will do. Am taking the week off. Contact me on mobile only, if you need me._ _Now go away, little brother, and enjoy your break.'_

Sherlock laughed and pocketing his phone, he made the tea and then carried the loaded tray into the living room to a dozing Molly, resting it on the coffee table. He stooped down and ran the back of his hand gently along her cheek, partly because he wanted to check her temperature and also to wake her. He wanted her to eat a hot meal before she slept. Molly groaned good naturedly.

"Oh dear, I think jetlag is setting in Sherlock." He smiled sympathetically at her.

"Just get this down you Molly and we'll have an early night. You'll feel better, and you'll definitely sleep better with something in your stomach." She smiled at his fussing. It was a very pleasant surprise, to have discovered how solicitous he was with her, and she relished it. She sat upright and stalled him by catching his hand in hers. He raised his brows quizzically at her, squeezing her hand in return. She looked into his eyes; emotion flooding hers.

"Nobody has ever taken care of me the way you do Sherlock, not since my parents passed." He paused and smiled tenderly at her.

"That's because they were all idiots Molly, and they weren't me!" he quipped. He softened his voice then and said, "I'd like to take credit Molly, but it's so easy with you. I find I want to please you, to ensure your well being and happiness, whenever possible. That's my role now, for good, I hope. It's certainly what you do for me, my love." Molly's heart surged at his words and errand tears ran down her face. She wiped them with her hands before he could, and then she beamed at him.

"I bloody love you, Sherlock Holmes." He laughed as he sat on the couch, and stretching his long legs out in from of him, he replied,

"Yep, I know, now eat your dinner, woman, before I give up and drag you upstairs to bed!" Molly giggled, took up her cutlery, and tucked in. The cottage pie was delicious and Molly hadn't realised just how hungry she was. She ate with gusto and he grinned at her enthusiasm. They chatted and planned their week over their meal and Molly relayed her conversation with Aoife about the 221B refurbishment. Sherlock smirked and told her that Mycroft had taken a week off from work and he suspected Aoife would not be too concerned about Baker Street for the duration. She smiled, pleased for Aoife and wiggled her eyebrows at him. He mock shuddered, making her giggle.

"Seriously though Sherlock, I am glad, because Mary told me that they'd both been working flat out to get me home, and hadn't seen much of each other. I felt bad because they've just started out themselves too."

"Don't be silly Molly. They love you, especially Mycroft. He's been a fan of yours for years, ever since you helped me with 'the fall.' He kept watch on you, and reported back to me on how you were doing while I was gone." Molly's head shot up in surprise.

"He did? You never told me that!"

"Of course he did. I insisted." She laughed and rolled her eyes.

"Pity it wasn't a 'quid pro quo' arrangement then. I missed you and worried for you all the time." He sighed, sitting forward in his seat.

"I'm sorry Molly. We couldn't. We'd burdened you enough with knowing I was alive without the constant worry every time I moved or went 'dark'." She nodded, understanding the logic of the decision. He looked into the fire then and said quietly, "I thought you'd forget about me. Move on." She looked at him curiously and smiled gently at him.

"Then you're not as clever as you think you are, Sherlock Holmes." She chewed on her bottom lip and asked him shyly then, "did you think about me, at all, while you were gone?" He smiled ruefully as he continued to watch the flames dance in the fireplace.

"All the bloody time. In the darkest of times Molly, the thought of you, seeing you again, gave me solace. I thought of you after every successful mission too, because each one brought me closer to returning home to you." Molly swallowed a lump in her throat as he continued.

"I didn't know Molly, not until the night I left, how important you were to me. I tried to tell you then, but I had hardly figured it out for myself and so much else was going on. It was only afterwards, when I'd left, that I'd realised just how significant you are to me. That was when I decided that any revelation of my feelings would endanger you." He was quiet for a long moment, lost in thought.

Molly stood and moved behind him on the couch, wrapping her arms tightly around his chest and nuzzling into his neck. He covered her hands with his, then brought them up to press his lips against her knuckles, enjoying the comfort of her warm body pressing against him. She sighed sadly into his broad back.

"One of these days, you are going to have to tell me about those 'darkest of times', Sherlock." Lest he missed the point, she kissed the spot over his left shoulder blade, where the scarring on his back was the most pronounced. He remained contemplative for a long minute and then nodded.

"Alright Molly, but it's not related to that scarring at all. That was the result of a beating in a dungeon in Serbia, but I knew Mycroft was present in the room and would not let me get too badly hurt." He paused and pursed his lips, deciding to tell her because he knew she wouldn't let up until he did. He took a deep breath and continued.

"It was the long weeks before that deliberate capture. I was hemmed into a deep forest, in the pissing rain, in December. I was exhausted, soaking wet and sick with flu. I was unsure, for the first time, whether I would survive. I'd sat down against a tree and knew if I closed my eyes, hypothermia would set in very quickly and I'd just slip away." Molly inhaled sharply, and clutched him tighter.

"What stopped you?" she asked him, as evenly as she could, very glad that he couldn't see the distress on her face. He laughed drolly and kissed her hand again. "You did, Molly. You slapped me hard across the face and ordered me to get up and use my brain." He twisted around to face her then and tilting his head, he teased, "so you see, when you slapped me in the lab for real, I wasn't shocked, because you'd already done it in my mind palace.." Molly spluttered indignantly.

"Sherlock!" and his chest shook with laughter. She grinned but shook her head reprovingly at him.

"Oh no you don't. Stop distracting me and continue please. What happened next?" He grinned at her and rolling his eyes, he continued.

"What always seems to happen Molly Hooper. I did what you told me to do!" Molly rolled her eyes in amusement.

"Oh if only that were true. Now stop prevaricating Sherlock." He couldn't resist it. He kissed her firmly on the lips and she pulled her head back after a minute and frowned at him.

"Sherlock.." He relented and continued.

"I mean it, Molly. I did what you told me and went into my mind palace. Then I remembered the co-ordinates of a hunters cabin and made my way there. I found it and broke in. It was fully stocked with preserves and firewood, the lot. It even had dry blankets. I remained there for days until I recovered."

He hugged her to him and lay back on the couch, pulling her with him. She dropped a kiss on his chest and then snuggled in. "So you see Molly, that's what I mean when I say that you always save me."

Molly wrapped her arm around him and said nothing, both of them deep in thought. She lay quietly, listening to his heart beating rhythmically beneath her ear, and he smiled as she fell fast asleep in his arms. He watched the firelight softly illuminating her long silky hair and stroked it gently, careful not to wake her. He rested his lips on the crown of her head and inhaled the very essence of her. That special, sensual scent that was uniquely Molly. A contented smile played on his lips as the great detective drifted off to sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

In London later on in the evening, Mycroft and Aoife settled down in his living room with the promised fish and chips. She'd opted to sit, bare footed and cross legged on the floor to eat her chips. He'd reluctantly consented to eating said 'chipper chips' with his fingers, straight out of the chip bag, but from his favourite Chesterfield chair. He drew the line at coca cola though. That far he would not go, so instead they opted for tea. Judging by the amused twinkle in Aoife's eyes she was enjoying his discomfort immensely. She was tired after the long flight and had changed into a form fitting tracksuit for comfort.

The woman could make a refuse sack look like it was a bespoke design by Chanel, he thought as he looked at her. It was dark green and complimented her auburn colouring and indeed, her Irish heritage, perfectly. She was a woman who was 'easy in her skin' he mused, as he watched her sucking the salt off her fingers. Stunningly beautiful by any standards, she exuded confidence in her physical appearance without a hint of vanity, and was self-assured without a trace of arrogance.

It was more then beauty though, he thought, she was charismatic, witty, utterly charming, smart, and even tempered, but had a strong and stubborn streak if crossed. She possessed an in-built sense of justice and fair play that stemmed from her parenting, but more fundamentally, from the murder of her twin brother. She was a rare gem in a world of glass baubles and he was a very lucky man to have her.

She felt his eyes on her and glanced up at him, noticing the amusement in his eyes. Well, amusement and something else entirely, which made her smile a little smugly.

"Well", she said, as she sucked her ring finger with a loud pop, "it's part of the ritual, to suck off the salt", she said, bold as brass and devilment dancing in her eyes, "do you know nothing, Mr Holmes?" He laughed heartily at her.

"Oh Aoife, I used to think I knew almost everything, but with you, I find I'm learning something new every day." She smiled happily and retorted,

"My Dad always says that the day you stop learning, is the day you die; so long may you continue to learn, dearest." She popped the last chip into her mouth and then twisted the bag and tossed it in the paper bin, smirking at him provocatively.

"Just testing my theory on my boyfriend's OCD tendencies. How long can you leave that greasy paper bag there before you transfer it to the kitchen bin?" He spluttered out laughing again.

"I have no idea what you're talking about! Anyway, I'm not sure which I object to more, the idea that I have OCD tendencies, or the use of the word 'boyfriend'." He wrinkled his nose in mock disgust and she giggled as she sipped her tea.

"What should I call you then?" she teased. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest as he smirked at her.

"'Mycroft' will suffice, thank you very much.." Aoife rolled her eyes and laughed again.

"I can't describe you as 'my Mycroft'!"

"You most certainly can."

Her eyes danced with merriment as she stood up and brushed off her track suit top, then slowly pulled it over her head to reveal a very fitted black vest t-shirt. Mycroft grinned and raised an eyebrow at her.

"Is the heat getting to you Aoife?"

She grinned as she walked towards his chair and then paused and tugged down the bottoms and stepping out of them, tossed them after her top. Mycroft slid down slightly in his chair, eyes popping, and a very happy smile on his face.

"Not at all," she said, quite matter of fact. "However, as I intend to shag 'My Mycroft' in his chair imminently, I thought I'd remove some impediments to that intent."

It took a second for Mycroft to realise his mouth was hanging open and he gulped and clamped it shut. He felt the blood rushing to his groin, and his pulse began to race as he looked at her. He thought, not for the first time, that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He wet his lips as she smiled down at him and then he held out his arms for her. She leapt like a gazelle into them, straddling his lap, and he pulled her tightly into him. Grasping her gently by the back of her head he tilted it so he could look in her eyes.

"You are so beautiful, Aoife." A soft smile hovered on her lips and she rested her forehead against his for a long moment before kissing him deeply. He ran his hands lovingly down her back and then taking hold of the hem of her t-shirt, he pulled it over her head. She leaned back slightly, tossing her long hair behind her and he sucked in a sharp breath at the sight. He had her bra off in seconds and palmed her breast as he buried his lips into her neck, gratified to hear her soft moans in his ear.

He was groaning himself when she shifted in his lap and reached down to unzip his trousers and release him. She moved to pull her underwear to the side to facilitate him but he shook his head. "Stand up", he told her firmly. She locked eyes with him, surprised, but did what he said, rising up over him on his chair, her long athletic legs barely touching each of his shoulders. He ran his hands slowly up the back of her thighs, and she began to tremble. He gripped her around her buttocks to steady her and her knees buckled into his chest. She grabbed the back of his chair and he tugged her silk underwear down her legs, lifting her foot to remove them. Freeing his target, he shifted her slightly and then clamped his mouth on her sex. Aoife groaned out loudly as he slowly worked her to climax. She called out his name as she came, collapsing back down his body onto his lap and he held her firmly as she shuddered into his chest, burying her face into his neck as she caught her breath.

Mycroft whispered lovingly into her ear for long moments and ran his lips along her neck as he held her tightly in his arms. Suddenly, he felt her tears on his cheek and pulling his head back in concern, he looked questioningly at her as he wiped them away from her face with the back of his hand. She shook her head and kissed him softly and then she whispered,

"I never knew, Mycroft, I never thought..." she faltered, and looking at his concerned expression and the love blazing in his eyes, fresh tears fell down her cheeks.

"Knew what, my love?" he coaxed her gently. She shook her head again and a tenuous smile began to hover on her lips.

"Knew that it could be this good; or thought I could ever feel this ridiculously happy." Mycroft's heart skipped a beat as he heard her words and he kissed her long and tenderly.

"I never thought 'it' was for me at all, and then you marched into my office demanding I re-open the Moriarty case, and I was a goner. I've been waiting for you my whole life Aoife." She laughed gently.

"I wouldn't say 'demanded' exactly..." and once again she had him laughing. He cupped her breast again and dipped his head to kiss it.

"Oh really? Wouldn't you? How then, would you describe it?" She wriggled on his lap and gripped the side of his head to press him to her.

"I would say it was a diplomatic request from one sovereign nation to another...oh!" she gasped as he ran his tongue across her nipple. Mycroft chuckled and lifted his head incredulously at her.

"That might have been what you told the Taoiseach, Aoife Quinn, but I remember it somewhat differently." She giggled and tapped him lightly on his shoulder.

"Oh hush you, I was right, wasn't I? Even if you didn't believe me at the time." He looked more seriously at her.

"Well, that's a mistake I won't repeat, my love."

She sucked in her breath sharply again as he reclaimed her breasts with his mouth and hands. Then his own heart raced as she wrapped one arm tightly around his shoulders and reaching beneath her, she grasped him firmly in her hand and then sheathed herself slowly until he completely filled her. His hips shifted and he rocked up under her and she began to move too. She kept her eyes on his as she moved with him, only closing them when she climaxed again, this time in unison with him.

He'd never felt as intense a high before her, he thought, as he held her tightly in his arms. No other lover had ever affected him like she did. He knew it was because he had never been emotionally invested with anyone else before her. She held onto him for a long moment and then kissed him and slid off his lap. She grinned and then pulled her underwear and vest top back on, shrugging bashfully at him. He fixed himself up as he laughed at her, shaking his head incredulously. "Now you're shy?! Aoife Quinn, you are hilarious!" She exhaled a laugh and picked his mobile up from the coffee table.

"Here darling, saved by the bell. It's been buzzing away there on vibrate. Someone is looking for you rather urgently." He sighed heavily.

"Someone is always looking for me..." he paused, as he saw it was from Mike Stamford. "Hang on, I do want to take this. That's curious, he hasn't left a voicemail, just a text to call him back urgently." Mycroft got a very uneasy feeling as he called Stamford; growing more so when he answered on the second ring. "Mike, hi, sorry, you were looking for me?" Mycroft's face hardened and he began to frown as he listened to Mike's response. "You're quite sure Mike?," he listened to the answer and sighed deeply. Then he thanked him, and as he terminated the call, he uttered one word. "Christ!" and Aoife looked at him questioningly, now very alarmed. He held up a halting hand and called his younger brother immediately.

In Wicklow, Sherlock had just carried a dozy but giggling Molly up to their bedroom where, after two minutes in the bathroom, she'd collapsed on their big bed, a tad dramatically, much to his amusement. He soon joined her and she rolled over beside him, sighing contentedly as she wrapped her arm across his chest and promptly fell fast asleep again. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. Placing it back on his chest, he covered it with his hand. Then his phone lit up. He'd left it on his locker on silent mode, waiting to hear from Mycroft. He slipped out of bed and answered quietly with "well, blood?" He heard his brother sigh deeply and Sherlock froze.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. It's not him." Sherlock was stunned.

"That's not possible Mycroft. The man is the image of them." Mycroft sighed again.

"That's because he's their Uncle; their father's brother. He may well have reared them with their mother, and I suspect he did. God knows where their father is, or if he's even still alive." Sherlock stormed out of his bedroom and into the hall so Molly would not wake up.

"Jesus Christ, Mycroft. That bloody family!" He gripped his head with one hand and thought hard. Then he said, "is Aoife there with you?" Knowing what he wanted, Mycroft handed his phone to an incredulous Aoife.

"Sherlock, God!"

"Aoife, I need you to go back to your people here in Ireland and start a search for the father. Go right back to those social security numbers and trace the entire family as much as you can; births, marriages and deaths of every bloody Uncle, Aunt, Grandparents, the whole cesspool.."

"I will do it right away Sherlock, but listen to me now for a minute. It was quite a common thing for a brother or sister to marry their sibling's spouse, upon their death. It was not at all unusual. It still happens too." Sherlock listened to her in silence and his heart began to calm.

"I can see how that could happen. People already know each other well. In this case the Moriarty children were probably already comfortable with their Uncle." He sighed. "You may be right. It's possible that the uncle may even have killed their father. Thank you Aoife. I am once again in your debt. I may need to stay here longer now, chase this up, if that's ok with you?"

"Oh Sherlock, don't be silly, stay as long as you need. I have an apartment in Dublin if I need to come home for this.." Sherlock interrupted her.

"No Aoife, if you need to come, please stay here with us. I'd prefer to have you with us for this, ok?"

"Alright Sherlock. I'll get on to Dublin now and let you know in the morning. We'll know more by then."

"Thank you," he said. "Oh, and Aoife?"

"Yes?"

"Send your full security team back to this house tonight please?" Aoife agreed immediately and handed the phone back to Mycroft.

"Sherlock?"

"Send somebody trained to deal with patients with dementia to question the Uncle in Virginia please. Not much point in me flying back."

"No problem Sherlock. Look, try not to worry. We'll to a full threat analysis between us in the morning. Do you need us to come over there?" Sherlock thought about it and answered with a question.

"Do you think you need to come?" His brother smiled, thinking how far they'd come in repairing their once fractured relationship, that he'd ask him that.

"No, Sherlock, I don't. Not yet, at any rate. We'll know more in the morning. What are you going to tell Molly?" Sherlock laughed ruefully.

"I'm going to tell her we have a case."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Sherlock checked on the still sleeping Molly and then did a quick sweep of the house. It was purely a precautionary measure but Mycroft's news had rattled him. He knew that Molly would not receive this news well either, but that couldn't be helped and he would have to manage it. The house, as he expected, was secure. He went into the kitchen and knocked on the kettle. He sat down at the table and shook his head in irritation. This could be just a loose end, but he hated unexplained details and in this particular case it was unacceptable, because this case had always been personal.

He sighed, irritated, as he thought it through. The 'Jim Moriarty' languishing with dementia in Virginia had, almost certainly, assumed his brother's identity for decades. The question was, why? Like a cuckoo in the nest, he had taken over his life, but had he cast him out of the nest, metaphorically speaking? He had 'taken' his wife and children, but had he also taken his brother's very life? He heard a car pulling up on the gravelled driveway and leapt up and made for the front door. As he reached the it his phone buzzed with a text message. He expelled an amused laugh when he read it. It was from Michael.

 _I could feel the worry vibes emanating from you all the way to Wicklow town. Let me in, genius!_

He opened the door to a grinning Michael. "Jaysus! I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" he quipped, and he strode past a still amused Sherlock into the hall. Sherlock's eyes gleamed because he'd spotted a thick Garda file under Michael's arm. He went to grab it but Michael was too quick for him and dodged nimbly into the kitchen with it.

"Piss off, Holmes. I was dragged out of the bed I'd just crawled into for this, so the least you can do is make me a cup of tea before you disappear into this file." Sherlock smothered a smirk.

"Well, the kettle's on.." Michael shook his head and laughed.

"And the tea doesn't make itself, sonny boy." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and conceding defeat, he pulled out the teapot and mugs and made the tea.

"Aoife rang you?"

"She did. Is Molly asleep?"

"She is. Tell me what's in that file while you're making me do this."

Michael spluttered a loud laugh and Sherlock shushed him, in fear he'd wake Molly, grinning broadly himself. He was glad to see Michael. 'Waiting' was not his forte, so to be able to make even this basic of starts was a relief. Much of what Michael related was not news to him but he appreciated talking it through again. It helped him think. Michael said that Jim Moriarty (Senior) was the eldest of three boys. Next came Sea,n and then Paul. At the moment, they did not know which of the younger brothers had assumed their eldest brother's identity.

"The problem is, Sherlock, that this entire family seems to have gone underground decades ago, before we were computerised. Local Garda knowledge is long gone, unfortunately." He gave a frustrated sigh. "I'm a great believer in community policing. People will talk to a community guard that they know, far quicker than they'll go into a Garda station and make a statement, you know, actually sign anything." He sighed in frustration. "Still, we'll get a 'last known address' for these two boyo's from Aoife's staff in either the Department of Justice, or Department of Social Protection by morning. Actually, both Departments will be useful in this case. Logically speaking, the brother we cannot trace too easily will emerge as the biological father."

Sherlock looked appreciatively at his friend. He knew Michael was smart but he was displaying a level of astuteness and savvy that was rare. He was going to be vital to this investigation because his knowledge of Irish systems and customs was faultless. He grinned at him as he plonked his tea down unceremoniously in front of him.

"I suppose you've earned the tea! What else is there in the file?"

Michael was deep in thought and just passed the file over to him across the table. Sherlock watched him speculatively.

"What is it Michael?" Michael looked at him with a little glint in his eye.

"I was just thinking there that we could really do with a photograph of the two of them. If either of them are claiming welfare, we'll have a photo of them in the system. If they've ever been arrested, we'll have a photo, or.." Sherlock grinned as he finished the sentence for him.

"If they've ever applied for a passport, we'll have a photo of them!"

Sherlock heard the soft padding of footsteps in the hall but it was too late to warn Molly that they had a visitor. Molly's sleepy voice called him as she opened the kitchen door and came straight in wearing a very short silk vest, matching knickers, and nothing else.

"Sherlock, are you on the phone? Michael? Shit!..." Molly ran back out the door as Michael choked back a laugh and politely averted his eyes. Sherlock spluttered out laughing too and then winced at Michael.

"Excuse me for a minute.." He darted out of the kitchen and Michael chuckled to himself, thinking that he wouldn't fancy being in Sherlock's shoes right now. He pulled the file back across the table to have another look. Sherlock could be a while.

By the time Sherlock caught up with Molly she was back in their bedroom and rummaging in the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers for something to wear. He found the sight highly delectable but was wise enough not to say so. She slammed that drawer shut, exasperated, and reefed open the next one.

"Molly..."

"I can't find my track suit Sherlock!"

"Em, Molly.."

"It should be here!"

Sherlock sighed quietly and opened her suitcase, pulling out running gear.

"Wear this one Molly," She spun around to face him, hands on her hips and tears of anger pooling in her eyes.

"He's not here for a cup of tea, is he?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Four hours, Sherlock. That's all we managed. Four fucking hours." She sat down on the side of the bed, gripping the sides tightly. She was breathing rapidly and stray tears fell down her face. Sherlock looked placatingly at her.

"It may be nothing Molly, really. Nothing's changed darling. We're staying here!"

She took deep breaths and twisted her hands together. Staring down at them, she whispered so quietly that he barely heard her.

"So, you're not sending me away again, then?" Sherlock's heart broke in his chest and he lunged forward and fell to his knees before her, grasping her hands in his.

"God no, Molly! Nothing like that!"

Sherlock had not realised just how insecure the sudden exiling of Molly had made her. It had affected her far more detrimentally then he imagined. She'd been acting so tough since their reunion that he'd overlooked the bloody obvious. She'd been frightened, distressed and very lonely during her exile, and that had naturally taken it's toll on her, and would take her a little time to get over. No wonder she'd assumed the worst tonight. She lifted her head and looked at him, tears still pooling in her big soulful brown eyes. A weak smile hovered on her lips.

"I feel a little silly now..." Sherlock shook his head at her and kissed her hands repeatedly.

"No Molly. It's a natural reaction. I'd have filled you in, but this just kicked off and you were asleep. It may be nothing." He sighed and wiped her tears with the back of his hand. He smiled kindly at her. "Come, love, and I'll explain what's happened." She breathed out a deep sigh of relief and leaned across and hugged him tightly. Then she ruffled his hair, much to his amusement.

"It's the DNA sample you gave Mycroft to test. It's not him, is it? You go on back down to Michael. I'll be down in a minute." Sherlock gaped at her in astonishment and she broke into a smile.

"Well, why else would Michael be here tonight with a Garda file?" He grinned lasciviously at her. Standing up, he pulled her up with him and then he gripped her around her waist with one arm and her buttocks with the other, lifting her, and she squealed in surprise and then giggled into his ear.

"God, you're hot, Molly Hooper," he growled into her neck and she grabbed his shoulders for balance and wriggled under his hands.

"Sherlock Holmes. Put me down. Michael is waiting in the kitchen!" She could feel his chest shaking with laughter as he kissed behind her ear and she began to really laugh herself. He sighed exaggeratedly, ever the consummate play-actor.

"If you insist." He dropped her gently to her feet and smiled down into her face. "I'm sorry you got a fright my love." She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugging his chest, she murmured,

"It wasn't your fault. I overreacted. I guess I just panicked, I'm sorry." He kissed the crown of her head and then stroking her cheek he replied,

"We can talk about it later, and will, but let me reassure you now Molly, that if I ever do have to 'send you away' again it would be a very last resort, alright?" He laughed ruefully. "I don't do well..., I'm lost without you, my darling girl."

She stood on his toes, reached up and grasping his face, she kissed him tenderly on the lips. "God knows, I'm lost without you too." She pushed him playfully on his chest. "Now, go on you, go down to your friend. I'll be down in a minute." He smiled at her lovingly, and then pursing his lips, he replied docilely,

"Yes Molly," and left her to it in the bedroom.

Michael laughed out loud at Sherlock as he strode nonchalantly back into the kitchen, making a big pretence of examining his fingernails.

"Jesus, look at you, English, you're like the cat that got the cream!" Sherlock smirked at him gleefully but did not comment. He poured out a cup of tea for himself and took out another for Molly.

"Right, where are we?" He asked Michael and Michael rolled his eyes.

"We may need a white board for this. It's like an episode of 'Who Do You Think You Are?" Sherlock looked at him quizzically. Molly laughed as she came into the kitchen.

"It's a TV programme on the genealogy of celebrities." She leaned down and kissed Michael on the cheek in greeting. "Hi Michael, sorry about flashing you earlier." He grinned mischievously at her.

"Oh, I'm not!"

Molly sniggered at him, eliciting a frown and pout from Sherlock.

"That's quite enough of that, you two."

He poured a cup of tea for Molly and passed it to her as she took a seat beside him. He stretched a long arm across the back of her chair possessively, and Michael hid an amused smile behind his hand as Sherlock began to fill her in. "Edited version Molly. The old git in Virginia is the 'terrible triplets' uncle, the rest, because you're as smart as a whip, you've already guessed." He grinned proudly at her and she preened. Michael smiled affectionately at the two of them before Sherlock turned his attention back to him.

"Actually Michael, that's a good idea. Lets do a 'family tree' and figure the various actors out."

He flicked through the file and then began to draw on the inside cover. He started with the two parents. The mother was definitely deceased. They'd disinterred her body and proven it. He drew and X through her name. Beside her he put the three brothers' names, with question marks over two. Over one, he put 'Uncle' and a question mark, but linked him to the mother. From the mother only, he drew a vertical line and then filled in the names of her three offspring, with an X through all three, because they were dead too. He paused then and frowned. The other two got it immediately but he drew the lines anyway. Under the three brothers he drew down vertical lines. He looked then at the two of them.

"Not only do we not know where two of these brothers are; we also don't know what offspring, if any, they all have." Molly shook her head despondently .

"You were right about Jim Moriarty from the beginning. He really is a spider and there's his web, right there."

Michael looked kindly at Molly and answered her, with silent permission from Sherlock.

"That web has already begun to decay. They're no match for the combined resources of the lot of us Molly. That's not hubris. That is fact. You needn't worry. You're quite safe." She smiled sadly at him.

"Oh, I know I'm safe, because we're not talking about a lover, out to cause ultimate pain, now are we? We're talking about a father, a father who's three children have died, primarily because of Sherlock Holmes. You're quite right though Michael. He won't come after me, but, if he's still alive, he will, sure as hell, come after him."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Soon afterwards, Michael stood to leave, and as they showed him to the door, he looked kindly at Molly.

"Now listen to me for a minute Dr Hooper. Let's look at this logically. A man who gives up his wife and children to his own brother, without any apparent fight, is not the type of man to take on a crusade of revenge decades later. It doesn't make sense."

Sherlock put his arm around Molly's shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze.

"Michael is right, Molly, and he's certainly not going to be any match for me. You know that."

She smiled at the two of them but she didn't respond any further, other then hugging Michael goodnight.

"I expect you for breakfast in the morning Michael, while we wait for information from Aoife and Mycroft, Ok?"

He sighed and agreed. "For what it's worth, I'm really sorry that your break has been interrupted." She smiled a little over brightly at him.

"Ah well, it can't be helped."

He nodded at her and got in his car, and as he drove off, three black Land Rovers, bearing part of Aoife's security team, appeared through the manor house gates in a tight convoy, and swept up the drive. Molly gaped at Sherlock in dismay. Disappointment flooded across her features and she tried hard to suppress it. She didn't fool him for a minute.

"I'll leave you to it Sherlock. I'm tired. I'm going back to bed."

Sherlock nodded curtly and went to greet the arrivals. She'd looked hurt at his abruptness and then quickly masked it as she turned back into the house. Sherlock sighed in exasperation. He needed time to process. She wasn't the only one who was disappointed, yet he was the one who was feeling guilty and in turn, angry with her. As he went through the motions with the security team, he pondered the situation. He realized then that she she wasn't really blaming him. She was just upset, as was he. She was also worried, this time about him.

It was hard work, he thought ruefully, this relationship stuff. She's asked him before though, to let her be upset when she felt upset, to just give her time to process those feelings. This, he figured, was one of those times. The Security Chief asked him if he'd let two of his men remain inside the house but Sherlock declined. He told him that they'd reassess the situation in the morning but for now, he considered that unnecessary. He reminded him to patrol Aoife's private beach as well, and bidding him goodnight, he re-entered the house.

He paused in the hall. Molly was in the kitchen, tidying up. He was inordinately relieved. She hadn't gone up to bed without him. She'd also left the kitchen door open, and he smiled. Molly hated leaving doors open. It was one of her 'things'. Mentally accepting her olive branch, he walked through and leaned against the door frame, arms crossed on his chest. She heard him come in and turned, a little apprehensively, to look at him. He met her eyes for a long moment and then he asked her quietly, "are you alright?"

She smiled tremulously and nodded briefly. As positive affirmations went, he thought it was the weakest he'd ever seen.

"Are you?" she asked him and he kept his sharp blue gaze on her as he shook his head.

"No", he said solemnly, "I'm not, actually, I'm very pissed off."

Molly paled visibly. She sat down heavily on a kitchen chair and began to fidget and chew on her bottom lip. He sighed deeply. "I'm pissed off," he continued, "because I was really looking forward to spending this time alone with you, and now the cavalry has arrived to join us again. I'm also pissed off because, once again, you're disappointed..."

Molly went to interject and he held a hand up to stall her,

"I know you don't blame me Molly, and for the record, I don't blame me either, but I do hate that you're disappointed again. It makes me feel angry, and all that emotion is pointless. You've just said it. It can't be helped, and yet, I find I'm furious."

She stared at him for a long moment and then, folding her own arms across her chest in a subconscious imitation of his stance, she began to smile at him.

"I don't feel disappointed anymore," she declared calmly. He raised a quizzical brow at her.

"You don't?" He asked as he took a long step towards her.

"Nope." She smirked and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. And just like that, his heart began to gallop. He took another step towards her.

"How, exactly, are you feeling then?" His voice was gravel and Molly's pulse raced as he took another slow step towards her.

"Guess.."

"No. You tell me." He purred, and took another step, reaching the foot of the table. Molly couldn't tear her eyes away from his.

"Well," she said, "it's the strangest combination of emotions really."

Molly twirled a strand of her hair coquettishly around her fingers, resulting in a very sharp intake of breath from Sherlock.

"Go on?"

"Well, it's like a perfect maelstrom of love, pride, and sexual arousal. It's most curious. I'm not sure I've ever felt quite like this before."

Molly licked her lips slowly, as if to savour the feeling, and that was it for Sherlock. His eyes glinted as he watched her mouth, and his lips twitched in response.

"Do. Not. Move."

He moves like a bloody panther, she thought, watching him as he crossed the kitchen floor to pull down the blinds on the windows and doors. He was dressed in black from head to toe and those trousers were positively sinful. As if to prove the point he turned at the door to face her, opened his jacket, and took it off, with a very bold look on his face. Molly felt heat rush through her, leaving a tell tale sign on her blushing face.

As his smirk grew broader she was pretty sure he was aware of the less obvious evidence, even from eight feet away from her. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and he was on her in seconds. He gripped her by the waist and lifted her out of her seat, depositing her on the large oak table as he leaned his body over hers.

"You're doing it again Molly," he whispered into her mouth.

"Doing what?" she croaked. She could barely breath.

"My job," he drawled, and he captured her mouth, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth and nibbling it gently with his teeth. Molly gripped his shoulders and wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, pulling him hard into her. She ran her hands down his chest and grappled frantically with the buttons on his shirt. She opened her mouth wide to him and he explored it with relish. Molly ran her hands under his shirt, stroking him and then reached around to his back, wanting to touch every bit of him. It was overwhelming sometimes, the strength of her feelings for him, manifesting in this need to be skin to skin with him, to have him inside her.

"Sherlock...please!" He knew exactly what she was asking him and he pulled up and took off her top. His shirt quickly followed. She moaned and gripped him around his broad shoulders as he dipped his head to kiss the top of her breasts. He stroked a hand around her back and snapped her bra open, tugging it away from her body. His quarry was released and Sherlock paid homage. He took his sweet time as he did so, and Molly was almost keening. Then he pressed her down until her back was flat on the table and began to move downward with his kisses, gently sucking and licking her too, and she grasped his head in her hands.

"My beautiful girl," he murmured as kissed her stomach, running his strong hands along her hips and gripping the waistband of her track suit bottoms. He tugged both them and her underwear down her legs and clear of her body. She was totally exposed to him now and he moved back towards her, running his hands along her supple thighs and parting her knees. He pulled her forward towards him and inhaled sharply as he took in the sight of her.

Molly felt shy suddenly and closed her eyes and he smiled at her and, gripping her thighs with his hands, he leaned down and kissed a trail up to her sex. She moaned and wriggled, clamping her thighs over his shoulders. Sherlock ran his hands back up her body, stroking and caressing her as he worked her to a climax with his mouth and tongue.

Molly called out his name as she came hard under his mouth. She had thrown her arms back over her head and was breathing rapidly and deeply, chest thrust up, rising and falling in tandem with her racing heart. He stood up and gazed down lovingly at her, thinking she was the most stunning thing he'd ever seen, and he told her so. She looked into his eyes, her own brimming with emotion, and she whispered to him, "nobody, ever, could do to me the things that you do to me Sherlock. I love you so much, so much..."

He smiled tenderly down at her and dipped down to kiss her on the lips. He hesitated and she giggled and pulled his mouth to her lips, even flicking her tongue along his lips and he laughed into her mouth. "Should have known 'my pathologist' is not squeamish" and she kissed him again to prove it.

"As if.."

She grew serious then and sat back upright on the table, cupping his face in her hands.

"Promise me Sherlock. Promise you'll be careful. Don't take this new threat too lightly. Please darling!" He looked hard at her and nodded.

"No, no you have to say it! Please Sherlock." Her voice went quiet, ragged. "I couldn't bear it, if anything happened to you. If I lost you now. I couldn't. I'd die too."

Sherlock's eyes blazed at her. He took her hand, the one with his Claddagh ring on her finger, and he pressed it to his mouth for a long moment.

"This is my promise Molly. I promised myself to you the night I gave you this ring, right here in this house, so yes, I promise you that I'll be careful, because I want a life time with you."

Her eyes pooled with happy tears and she kissed him softly and tenderly. She whispered in his ear then, "let's go upstairs, I'm so not done with you yet, and I'm not sure the kitchen furniture could stand it..."

He laughed, raising his eyebrows at her, and then scooping her up in his arms, he carried her out of the kitchen and up the stairs to their bedroom, while all the time, she nuzzled and kissed into his neck.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

As dawn broke the next morning, Sherlock was wide awake and deep in thought, while Molly lay fast asleep in his arms, her head resting on his chest. He'd lifted her into his arms when he'd first woken up, wanting, yet again, to feel her naked body on his. Although he was still disappointed about their forced change of plans, he was determined to sort this Moriarty parental issue out so they could finally take their ever elusive break. She didn't really seem to care too much though, once she was with him. He gazed at her as she slept on and smiled softly as she nestled into him in her sleep. Their emotional connection was strengthening by the day, he thought, spilling over into their physical relationship, and increasing the intensity of those couplings.

They'd both been almost insatiable last night, bringing each other ever higher, and teasingly whispering and caressing each other between bouts. He found those intimate moments with her, the softly spoken confidences, the little revelations shared as he held her in his arms' or she hugged him to her breast, every bit as satisfying as the sex between them was. He'd been a loner for most of his life, he'd thought that was predestined for him and was fine with it. Then he'd met John Watson, and made his first true friend, and now he had Molly, (he raised his eyes to heaven at his sentimental thoughts), and she was his one true love.

He smiled at the memory of the night before. Molly Hooper had the ability to seduce him with one look from her bold brown eyes. Last night she had been quite deliberate in her seduction, and he had gone from livid, to completely turned on, in seconds. She was getting bolder, and more self confident, with each passing day and he delighted in it, and in her.

She challenged him and understood him, and she had an almost unique ability to calm him, or arouse him, sometimes with just the slightest of touch or eye contact. He knew he had the same effect on her. He was completely besotted with her, and she with him. He fully comprehended it, he thought, how people could kill or die for love. He'd understood the concept before, but not the emotion. He sure as hell did now though.

He was satisfied that Molly was completely with him on this case. It was extraordinary, he thought, how quickly she adapted to changed circumstances. Whenever possible, he decided, they would work the case together. That way, they could still spend time together and he could keep an eye on her too. The best case scenario was that the real Jim Moriarty Snr was dead, and had been for decades. Alternatively, he'd simply abandoned his wife and children and started a new life elsewhere. Either way, he wanted answers, and as soon as possible.

Reasonably, it would be a few more hours before he would hear from Aoife and Mycroft. He felt a little guilty about his brother and his new partner. They'd also taken a long awaited week off together and then this had kicked off, upsetting their plans too. It was unfortunate, but Aoife particularly, was going to be vital to this investigation because both herself and Michael were privy to information that he just couldn't access. Well, he could, but it would take longer and probably cause an international incident if he did, bringing the wrath of Mycroft, the Prime Minister and the Irish Taoiseach on his head and frankly, he could do without it. He smirked to himself. 'Best not', he decided, but he had a few ideas he wanted to bounce off his Irish friends, and as soon as possible. He had taken on board what Michael had said about the computerisation of criminal records but something had been bothering him since he mentioned it.

His phone vibrated on the locker beside his bed and he frowned. It was Mycroft, but it was hours earlier then he expected. Reaching across to answer, he whispered, "hang on Mycroft" and gently slid Molly out of his arms and drew the duvet over her. Grabbing his dressing gown off the chaise longue, he slipped it on and moved out onto the landing, closing the door behind him. "Sorry, go ahead, what's wrong?"

"We're on our way there now Sherlock." Sherlock sucked in a breath. It was seven in the morning, whatever had happened, it wasn't good.

"Tell me..."

"The Moriarty uncle in Virginia was just found dead by the night nurse. He's been smothered." Sherlock thought rapidly.

"Dementia or not, someone was afraid of what he might say. Did the psychiatrist have a chance to interview him?"

"Yes, she'd just left a half hour before his body was discovered. She taped the session and is sending it to the FBI as we speak."

"We need that Mycroft!" Mycroft sighed in irritation.

"I'm aware of that, Sherlock. This is just breaking. I should have it by the time we touch down in Dublin."

"You're coming straight here?"

"That's the plan."

Sherlock paused and then laughed ruefully.

"What?" asked Mycroft.

"Well, I'm just thinking, can nobody in that cursed family have a natural death?" Mycroft spluttered out a laugh.

"It appears not. I'll see you in a couple of hours Sherlock."

Sherlock thanked him and hung up the phone. Remembering the night before, he went down to the kitchen to gather up their clothes. He retrieved them and depositing them on a chair, he made a pot of tea. He stood for a long while watching the sun rise over the grounds of Aoife's beautiful gardens and then texted her head of security to inform him of their imminent arrival. He decided to rebuild the fire in the living room too. They were going to have guests. When he was finished he poured out fresh tea for both of them and, their clothes tucked under his arm, he went back up to Molly.

She was still sleeping, murmuring something crossly in her sleep and it made him smile. He put their clothes down, and the tea down on his locker and, shucking off his dressing gown, he climbed back into their bed and gathered her back into his arms. He sighed contentedly. Minutes later he felt her stirring and then gentle kisses landing on his chest. He ran a hand through her hair and laughed as she yawned and stretched. She lay back on her own pillow and smiled at him in response, running her hand across his cheekbone.

"Hello you." He smiled and kissed at her hand.

"Good morning sleepyhead. I've been awake ages!" Molly looked at him in amusement. He sounded like a little boy sometimes and it was totally endearing.

"Did you get any sleep?" she asked him and he grinned roguishly at her.

"Oh I did Molly, you quite wore me out last night. I needed to recuperate." Molly snorted with laughter.

"I wore you out? That's not quite how I recall it!" He smirked at her and then said, rather proudly,

"I made you tea."

Yep, she thought, he's turned into a four year old.." She sat up fully, allowing the duvet to drop.

"Oh, you did? Wonderful. Is that it there?"

She leaned over his chest, quite deliberately, and her breasts brushed off his chest as she stretched over towards his bedside locker to retrieve it. Sherlock stared at her for a second and then, grasping her reaching hand in his, he spun her around and under him, nudging her knees apart with his other hand. Then one large hand clasped her breast and he lowered his mouth to the other, hovering over the nipple as he looked up at her with those magnetic eyes of his.

"You, Molly Hooper, are a very naughty woman." He dipped his head and took her breast into his mouth running his tongue over the nipple. Molly laughed and tried to ignore the warm tingles shooting through her. She wrapped her limbs around him, clasping him tighter to him as she protested weakly.

"Sherlock, we can't. I have to brush my teeth!" He chuckled heartily at her.

"She says, as she traps me between her legs...", he teased, as he continued to nuzzle at her. Molly laughed in response as she ran her fingers through his curls.

"I confess, I may be sending out mixed messages..." making him laugh again.

"So which is it to be then? Me or your toothbrush?" She ran a hand down his back as she considered the question.

"You know, I'm going to let my body decide."

"Oh good!" he chuckled, and continued his ministrations. She giggled and wriggled out from under him.

"Body wins.. I need the loo." He lay back with his hands behind his head and watched her as she threw on his dressing gown and went to the bathroom. She turned at the door and smiled back at him.

"I love waking up with you, just so you know." He looked lovingly at her.

"Ditto, Dr Hooper." She threw him her megawatt beaming smile and went into the bathroom. A few minutes later she stuck her head out of the door, toothbrush in hand and asked him if he'd heard from Mycroft. He winced and she frowned at him.

"What? You have, haven't you? Hang on..." She finished up quickly, and grabbing her tea, she clambered back into bed with him.

"Tell me? He sighed and grimaced at her.

"Mycroft and Aoife are on their way here now. They'll be here within the hour, I expect." She nodded at him.

"Ok. Why?" He filled her in on the murder in Virginia and she took it in and thought about it. Then she shook her head in confusion.

"It's weird though. Why now? Why not after you visited him?" He thought about it.

"That's a good question, although It's under a week since I did see him so it rather depends on where the murderer normally resides now, doesn't it? Well done Molly, I hadn't thought of that."

Finishing his tea, he leapt out of bed and headed, buck naked, to the bathroom. He turned at the door, bold faced and eyebrow up and beckoned her to him.

"Well come on then, shower." He winked at her. "It's your last chance to scream my name before our visitors arrive." Molly spluttered out a laugh, but as he grinned and went through the door she gulped down her tea. Then she slid out of bed and went after him.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

A couple of hours later and Sherlock was pacing the hall as he waited for Michael to arrive. Molly, wisely, had found things to do elsewhere as his impatience increased. He settled though, as soon as he ushered Michael into the house and was relaxed when Aoife and Mycroft appeared twenty minutes later. He eyed Mycroft's laptop speculatively as, curiously for him, he volunteered to help his brother carry his luggage upstairs.

Aoife hugged Molly warmly in greeting in the kitchen, laughingly acknowledging that Molly was welcoming her to her own home. The two women grinned at each other conspiratorially, stifling their laughter as they overheard Mycroft's warning comment to his younger brother as they both clambered up the stairs.

"Hands off my laptop Sherlock. You know that's out of bounds." Molly clasped a hand over her mouth at his petulant response.

"And you know I can access it anytime I feel like it..."

"Like hell you can!"

"Try me!"

"Even if you did you'd never get through the encryption..."

"That? Pfft! Childs play!"

"Sherlock! We have just been through all of this at Christmas! Do I now have to warn everyone not to drink anything you make?"

"No!" He could be heard protesting indignantly, "I promised Molly I'd never do that again."

"Thank God for Molly then!"

"Oh, do shut up Mycroft!"

Michael had no concerns about discretion or being overheard and his shoulders shook as he roared with laughter.

"Jesus! There's never a dull moment with those boys, is there ladies?" Aoife laughed as she hugged him in greeting.

"I know. I just adore listening to them bickering. They can turn into kids at the drop of a hat. It's quite delightful." Molly joined in their laughter and added,

"I kind of adore it too, it's hilarious, especially when you consider who they both are!" Sherlock's deep voice carried into the kitchen as he came back down the stairs.

"I heard that, Molly Hooper!" His sheepish grin on entering the kitchen belied his tone though, and he hugged her waist and kissed her as he passed her, smirking then at her blushing cheeks.

"I suppose I'm making the tea," he grumbled, and Aoife held her head in her hands in a gesture of exaggerated exasperation,

"Seriously? It's the least you can do, you brat, you've wreaked my week off!"

Sherlock paused as he passed her, and then patted her shoulder and kissed her on the crown of her head. She looked up at him, touched by the gesture, as he gave her his best 'puppy dog' eyes.

"Yes, um, I am sorry about that Aoife, although, to be fair, it's not exactly my fault..." Aoife smiled up at him wistfully.

"Oisin used to say that all the time when we got into trouble."

Silence descended in the room momentarily. Everyone was aware of Sherlock's close resemblance to Aoife's twin brother, and of what had happened to Oisin at the hands of a young Jim Moriarty. Mycroft, who'd arrived quietly into the kitchen, sat down beside her and briefly covered her hand in his. Then, clearing his throat for attention, he opened his laptop.

"I've received the file of the recorded interview with 'Uncle Moriarty' in the nursing home last night from the FBI. I suggest we have a listen to it without comment while we drink the tea Sherlock was just about to make for his guests."

Sherlock sighed exaggeratedly and went for the kettle, and minutes later they began to listen in relative silence to the interview. It was gripping from the opening. Initially, the old man was cranky and obstructive. He refused to confirm his name, he just kept repeating to the psychiatrist, in an irritated tone, that she knew who he was, his raspy voice sneering at her,

"What are you, thick?

They were lucky though, Sherlock thought, because he was quite lucid, far more compos mentis then he had been on the night he'd visited him the week before, and his interrogator was highly competent. She slowly hooked him with friendly banter. It was when the psychiatrist asked him about his family, things got more interesting. She asked him if he had any children, and he was slow to answer. He finally responded with a cryptic "you could say that..".

When she asked him for clarification he became irritated and defensive. "Well I may as well have had them myself, sure didn't I rear them?" The Doctor was very clever, Sherlock thought because she praised him then, and placated him.

"Did you?", she enquired sympathetically. "That was very decent of you. Why did you have to do that? What happened to their father?" There was a disparaging hiss from the old man.

"That fella? He wouldn't be fucking told, would he?" When he didn't follow up on that statement, the Doctor did it again, used an emphatic and conspiratorial tone to coax a response.

"Oh", she said, "tell me about it! I have a sister who's exactly the same. Can't take advice or make proper decisions. Think's she knows it all. Was your brother like that?" Cackles of laughter from the old man.

"He was. Stupid prick! He thought he could take on the IRA, for fucks sake!"

Every head at the kitchen table shot up. Sherlock smirked. A jigsaw piece had just slotted into place. On the recording, the Doctor, whom Sherlock was beginning to realise was one of the best interrogators he'd ever heard, continued on questioning him, barely missing a beat at his revelation.

"You're joking! What was he thinking? That's madness. Tell me what happened?" The old man grew a little more cautious then.

"Sure, he had to do a runner, didn't he?. You don't mess with them boys."

"You certainly do not! So he ran off and left his wife and kids?"

"He did, the waster, although, in fairness, they didn't give him much choice!" He gave a raspy laugh again.

"You were very good to step in. What happened then? I suppose it's natural, you and she got together." There was a long silence and then he could be heard sighing sadly.

"She was a fine woman, in her day. Pity she turned out to be a treacherous bitch. Ah well.."

There was a silence again for a moment, both on the tape and in the room in Wicklow. It was quite the statement. It looked more likely that this brother had possible been involved in, or at least complicit with, the murder of the Moriarty matriarch. Then the Doctor asked him subtly,

"Did you ever hear from Jim again after that?" There was no answer to that question, so she repeated it softly. There was a long silence and then, when his voice did come back, it sounded tired and agitated again. The window of lucidity was closing.

"Ah, on and off." She gave a sypathetic sigh.

"Have you any idea where he settled?"

"Who cares? Why are you asking me all this shit?"

"Well, we do need to know your next of kin.." There was another pause, and a self-pitying sigh, and then he answered.

"Oh. He's got homes in a few places. Here and in London, that I know of. I'm not sure! He could easily be back in Ireland now too." The man's voice grew melancholy. "It was all so long ago. Don't be asking me any more stupid questions."

The Doctors voice could be heard then, winding down the interview. She thanked him, telling him she'd be back to see him tomorrow, and the recording finished. There was a brief silence in the kitchen and then everyone seemed to talk at the same time. Sherlock held up a commanding hand and the group fell silent again.

"Hang on a minute everyone, let me give the synopsis. OK?" Sherlock stood up and began to pace as he spoke.

"Jim Moriarty Senior operated a criminal enterprise in the seventies and early eighties in the Republic of Ireland, probably Dublin. However, back then, during 'the troubles', in order to be allowed operate, you had to pay the paramilitaries a cut of all your takings. Bank robberies, kidnappings etc. were a major source of funding for the IRA, and no other criminal gang could operate without cutting them in on the takings. They ruled the roost and that was that. If, for example, your gang wanted to rob a bank, you needed their permission and approval on which bank branch you could hit, and you paid them a generous cut afterwards. Jim Moriarty Snr, from what we can ascertain from the interview, thought he was a cut above all that, and ignored them. His antics wouldn't have escaped their attention for long. Either a hit was put out on him, and he fled, which I doubt, because they would have just done it themselves without warning, or, he was given a warning and exiled. It had to have been the latter."

He turned then and grinned at Aoife like a cheshire cat. She groaned.

"Oh God! Here we go..." Sherlock put on his best 'offended' face.

"Don't be like that Aoife, we're practically family." She smothered a grin and tried to look sternly at him.

"What do you want?" As he made to answer she continued, "no, don't tell me, let me guess. You want access to highly classified intelligence files pertaining to the national security of the Republic of Ireland. Not a chance Sherlock." She shook her head firmly to emphasise the point.

"Ah Aoife, I know I can't access them..." He retorted leadingly. She sighed and looked over at Michael. He raised a speculative brow, trying not to smirk. She rolled her eyes at him. "You're worse then him, Michael!" He laughed.

"Ah, what's the harm? He gestured to Mycroft. "Sure, your fella there has probably hacked them all anyway." Mycroft spluttered indignantly.

"I most certainly have not!" Michael chuckled at his tone of righteous indignation.

"I don't mean you personally. I'm sure you're far too busy to be doing all that hacking yourself."

"Any intelligence sharing has been with the full permission of the Irish authorities," Mycroft responded pompously. Even Aoife joined in the general laughter that greeted that statement.

"Never mind that now," she said, "alright Sherlock. Michael and I shall go up to Dublin Castle today and start a search. Let's see how we get on. Jim Moriarty's name wouldn't have come up on any previous searches there because we were looking at criminal files, not terrorist ones. We are now talking about different levels of security altogether. The other database searches made were for offences unrelated to offences against the State."

"Oh I know," he replied. He paused, deliberating how to proceed with his next request. "There's another thing too." Mycroft glared at Sherlock.

"Absolutely not!"

"Oh come on Mycroft! You know it makes sense. Surely we're all friends now anyway?" he retorted, a touch sardonically.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's best warning voice was now in place.

Molly looked quizzically at Aoife. She groaned. "You want me to ask Sinn Fein if they know where he is now, don't you?" Mycroft's features set in a grim line.

"That is a very bad idea Aoife. You know what happens when we go there looking for favours. It costs!" He checked his tone as her eyes narrowed at him. "Look," he said placatingly, "why don't we see how you both get on first? I'll make my own enquiries, we'll compare notes, and then we can decide if such a move is necessary?" She nodded at him.

"Agreed," she said.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest and shut it again when he saw her expression. She looked solomnly at him and said firmly, "Sherlock. It is imperative that you do not approach anybody from that party informally and make any such request. You are a British citizen and a direct relative of the head of the British Intelligence Services. It would cause havoc. Promise me you will not make contact with them until we discuss all this later?" He looked seriously at her and nodded.

"I promise, Aoife." She smiled in relief.

"Thank you. Right, I'm making brunch. Who's in?"

During the bustle of the meal, Molly caught Sherlock's eye and smiled happily at him. He made his way over to her and sitting beside her and asked her "what was that for?"

"It's for you. It's for these people that I love, that will stop everything to help us at the drop of a hat. I feel like I have a new family now." He smiled tenderly at her.

"Well, they love you Molly, and that's an easy thing to do."

"They love you too Sherlock, and that's not half as difficult as you like to think." Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried not to show just how pleased he felt. She wrapped an arm around his waist under his jacket and hugged him.

"What are you planning on doing today?" He ran a hand down the back of her head, stroking her hair as he glanced at the three heads strategizing together across the table from him. He tilted Molly's chin up to him and kissed her lips.

"I'm planning on taking the love of my life up to Dublin for the day." Molly's eyes brimmed with emotion at his words and she gazed adoringly at him.

"However, if she keeps looking at me like that I'm taking her straight back to the Shelbourne Hotel for the afternoon..." Molly gasped excitedly. It was the place where she'd first made love with him. She popped her eyes wide and smiled excitedly at him and he laughed and gave her hair a gentle tug.

"Well, that settles that then." He took out his phone and called the hotel.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Mycroft had opted to stay behind in the house for the day and work from the study. Aoife's IT network was secure and he needed to stay in touch with London. Word had come to him earlier of a terror scare in Heathrow. It was quickly declared a false alarm but London's terror alert was high and the effectiveness of the airport reaction plan needed to be reviewed. From what he could ascertain, it was enacted perfectly, but he'd like to have another look. Anyway, he'd considered, Aoife may require information from London too, later on. He could hear her voice outside the door and then she came into the study, her mobile phone stuck to her ear. She smiled at him as she wound up her call. "That's grand," she said to him, "It's sorted. They're expecting Michael and I later on this morning." He smiled teasingly at her.

"'Grand' indeed," he responded. She narrowed her eyes and pretended to frown at him, smothering a grin.

"Mycroft Holmes, are you slagging my accent?" He looked guiltily at her, and then pushed back his chair from the desk and held his hand out for her, because he wanted her in his arms. She'd changed her clothes, opting for skinny black jeans and a black fitted polo neck sweater with high leather boots. He thoroughly approved.

"Aoife Quinn, I doubt even the Angel Choir sounds as wonderfully lyrical as your accent." She laughed as she reached his side and took his outstretched hand. He tugged her down to sit across his lap and she hugged his shoulders to hold him in a warm embrace.

"Good answer dearest, even if you did avoid the question."

She exuded good humour, he thought as he studied her face. She rolled her eyes tolerantly at him, knowing he was doing his 'scanning' thing again. Satisfied, he tucked her hair behind her ear and tenderly kissed her.

"You look very beautiful this morning," he told her softly. She smiled, pleased, and nestled into his neck as he pulled her tighter into him.

"Don't be cross, Aoife, but I've arranged for a security detail to support you. They'll split into two teams, one to cover Sherlock and Molly in the Shelbourne and one to remain with you and Michael. It's just a precaution and I'll ensure that they remain unobtrusive."

"I'm not cross Mycroft, not at all, but they'll have to wait outside the operations room. They can't come in."

"Of course. What time should I expect you back darling?" She frowned curiously at him. He was being unusually fussy.

"Why?" she teased him, "will you be all lonely today without all of us?" and he laughed and caressed her back as he answered.

"Well, I don't know about 'us' but I'll certainly miss you, my dear." She kissed him for a long moment before asking him about the earlier incident in Heathrow. He reassured her that it was a false alarm and he wasn't needed back in London.

"Good," she said, "I know with our jobs it's probably imminent, but I'm not ready to be separated from you just yet." Mycroft didn't respond to that, because, like she'd said, he knew future temporary separations would be inevitable, so he just kissed her and told her very softly, "you make me very happy Aoife," She palmed his face with her hand and whispered "ditto" to him. Mycroft twinkled at her.

"Actually, that reminds me, I've bought you something. I meant to give it to you this week in London but, well, now would seem an opportune time too." Her eyes widened and she smiled delightedly at him.

"You have?", she exclaimed in excitement. "What for? What is it?". Mycroft rolled his eyes and laughed at her. Keeping a firm grip around her waist with one hand, he reached down into his briefcase and pulled out a box wrapped in the iconic 'Tiffany's' paper. Her eyes lit up as he handed it to her. She looked shyly at him suddenly, much to his surprise. It occurred to him then, from her reaction, that although Aoife was a multi- millionaire, outside of her parents and a few of her close girlfriends, it was likely that people didn't buy her presents very often. "May I open it now?" she asked him.

But of course!" he told her. She used her nails to tease open the paper and reveal the box beneath. She handed him the paper and he took it from her, touched to see her hand shake just a little. "I love it!" she told him, her voice quivering a little and he shook his head in astonishment at her.

"But you haven't opened the box yet, my love!" Her big green eyes brimmed with emotion.

"I know," she whispered to him, "but I love it anyway," and his heart lurched in his chest at her words. He stared at her, incredibly touched, and then he ran his thumb tenderly along her cheekbone to capture an errand tear. She smiled at him and opened the box. Nestled on the mount was a diamond encrusted Tiffany key necklace, and she gasped in shock. Her eyes flew back up to him and he laughed at her, delighting in her reaction.

"Oh! I love these! How on earth did you know?" He raised a sardonic brow at her and she giggled and kissed him hard, murmuring "why do I even ask?" She took the necklace out of the box and ogled it in her palm. Then she handed it to him and lowered her head. "Will you put it on me please?"

He took it from her and placed it around her neck. It fit perfectly, sitting just above her breasts and she gazed at it as it glistened against the black of her jumper. Aoife leaned over and placed her forehead against his for a moment, arms hugging his neck. "Thank you," she said softly, and kissed him again.

They only broke apart when they heard Sherlock fussing with Michael outside in the hall. Mycroft gave her another quick kiss before nudging her off his knee and walked with her to the door. They grinned in amusement at each other as they observed an impatient Sherlock in the hall, glancing at his watch and then up at the staircase, obviously waiting for Molly to come down the stairs. He rolled his eyes and appealed to Aoife. "I don't understand. She was already dressed. Why on earth does she now need to change her clothes? Aoife giggled at him.

"Because you told her you were bringing her to the Shelbourne, Sherlock!" He looked at her in confusion.

"But she was perfectly presentable before!" Molly came flying down the stairs.

"Oh hush you, I'm here now." Sherlock's jaw dropped open in appreciation at the sight of her. Molly was wearing a figure hugging deep purple woollen dress, cut to just above her knees, with black high heeled boots, zipped tightly around her calves. Her silky caramel coloured hair swung loosely over her shoulders. Mycroft laughed at his brother's reaction and complimented her warmly.

"You look lovely, Molly." She smiled at him in response and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you Mycroft," she tittered, as Sherlock slipped a possessive arm around her waist.

"I find myself in complete agreement with my brother, Molly," and she threw him a chuffed smile. He took her pale cream, knee length, woollen coat from her hand and helped her into it, then gently turned her to button it up in the front, running a hand over the coat where it hugged her hip as Mycroft quipped drolly,

"What's rare is wonderful!" Sherlock threw him an eye roll. "Try not to start any wars while we're gone, brother mine..." Mycroft studied his brother coolly before he responded seriously, "and you make very sure not to reignite any, Sherlock." Sherlock glared indignantly at him, "for God's sake Mycroft, I wouldn't dream of it! You have my word." Mycroft's features relaxed into a smile, and he shook his brother's hand. He handed Aoife her briefcase, kissed her goodbye and returned to the study.

As they left the house, Sherlock clasped Molly's hand in his and whispered lustfully into her ear, "don't think for one second that your suspender belt got by me, Dr Hooper." Molly smothered a gasp and blushed to her roots as she slipped into the back seat of the car. Sherlock smirked gleefully as he sat in beside her, electing to let Aoife sit in front with Michael. He thought he'd enjoy making Molly blush during the trip to Dublin.

As the car moved down the drive and onto the local road towards the motorway, he shrugged off his coat and jacket and re-snapped his seatbelt, before turning towards her and running his eyes boldly up and down her torso. Molly tried desperately to ignore him, staring straight ahead, but the tell-tale blush crept back across her cheeks. Sherlock smirked and kept it up, folding his arms across his chest as he ran his toe up along her calf. Molly looked at him from the corner of her eye, seeing the boldness on his face and decided to turn the tables on him.

As she leaned forward in her seat to have a quick word with Aoife, she stretched her hand over surreptitiously to stroke Sherlock's knee. Then she slowly moved it up his thigh before brushing the back of her hand against his groin and he jumped and grabbed her hand.

She threw a triumphant glance his way as he sat back in his seat and he grinned at her and kissed the back of her hand, making her snigger. Erring on the side of caution, Sherlock made sure to keep a hold of her hand as she chatted with Aoife, who was recommending that they have lunch or drinks in 'The Horseshoe Bar' in the hotel, as it was always lively and a great place for 'people spotting'. Sherlock tutted in disgust at the notion but when Molly glanced disappointedly at him he immediately acquiesced. He kissed the back of her hand again and muttered, "all right Molly, I'll behave," eliciting a snort of amusement from the driver's seat.

Michael's mobile buzzed with an incoming text message and he gestured to Aoife to read it for him. "It just says 'call me'" she told him, noting that the number was American. Michael shrugged and Molly teased him then. "How many American women did you give your phone number to, Michael Reilly?" He laughingly protested, "none, honestly, I was very careful!"

He frowned thoughtfully. "Actually, I only gave that number to a few trusted contacts in the States. Their names should have come up if its' one of them. I used a burner phone over there." He turned his head swiftly to catch Sherlock's eye.

"Before you ask, no I didn't give your number to anybody either." Sherlock pondered for a second. "It may be a wrong number but call it when we get to Dublin, see what it's about? Michael nodded in agreement. The friends chatted amiably the rest of the way to Dublin. Sherlock was quiet though, mulling over the implications of the murder in Virginia. It was too much of a coincidence that Michael would get a call from the USA the next day, and anyway, the Holmes's had their own theory about 'coincidences'.

Squeezing Molly's hand in advance apology, he asked Aoife and Michael to join them in the hotel for coffee. "I think you should call that number Michael, and I'd like to eavesdrop." Molly was a trooper though, and just squeezed his hand back in return. Aoife made a quick call to Dublin Castle to tell them they'd be delayed, and before long, Michael pulled into the carpark at the back of the hotel. The valet recognised Molly and Aoife and greeted them warmly, then gave a startled grin when he recognised Sherlock.

"Welcome back Mr Holmes, you've had a haircut since you were last here Sir, I'm sorry, I didn't recognise you there for a minute." Sherlock raised a sardonic brow at him and muttered, "that was rather the point," but tempered his remark by shaking his hand in greeting. By the time they took seats in the bar, Aoife had been greeted by numerous Irish clientele. She was very well known as the CEO of Oisin Holdings, Ireland's largest indigenous company and its biggest employer.

Herself and Sherlock, however, had also garnered a huge amount of media and public attention during the hunt for 'Janine' and the shootings in her home. It didn't take the customers long to recognise Sherlock either, mainly because he was in her company. A journalist, having his lunch in the restaurant, spotted them and approached her, enquiring if there was 'another case'. She laughingly fobbed him off, telling him that they were all good friends and that Mr Holmes was back for a short holiday.

The two men stepped out to the front door of the hotel and Michael dialled the number on his phone. There was no answer but they both knew to wait for a few minutes and sure enough, his phone rang with the same number showing. He answered and recognising the caller, he immediately said "oh hi, its yourself. Why the cloak and dagger Conor?"

He covered the mouthpiece and whispered 'confidential informant, knew him from school, works in Molly Malone's in Brooklyn. Sherlock heard 'Conor' telling him that he'd decided to take precautions and use a burner phone to contact him. He went on to tell him that everyone was saying that James Moriarty Senior, "the real one" had killed his own brother in the nursing home in Virginia. He went on to tell him that he'd been visited in the bar the night before and informed that Moriarty Snr wanted to meet with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock mouthed 'where?' to Michael and he relayed the question. Conor replied that he'd said 'in New York' but exactly where, he didn't know, but that the messenger said he'd get back to him 'in a day or so' for an answer from Holmes.

Conor was nervous and Michael spent a few minutes mollifying him and told him that he'd 'check with Sherlock Holmes' and get back to him, and terminated the call. He frowned at Sherlock's delighted expression.

"It's a fucking trap Sherlock. You can't meet him!" Sherlock chuckled and clapped his hands in glee.

"Of course it's a trap, and of course I'm meeting him. Care to come along?" Michael grinned at him.

"Try and stop me!"

They re-joined the women and Michael filled them in over coffee. Molly said nothing as he relayed the news but her stone faced expression spoke volumes, Sherlock thought, and he sighed to himself. When Michael had finished speaking, Molly turned and smiled sweetly at Sherlock, and he winced.

"So, let me get this straight. A known murderer has summoned you to meet secretly with him. Said murderer knows that you are directly or indirectly responsible for the deaths of all three of his children, and you are going, gung ho, back to America to comply with his request. Did I miss anything, Sherlock?" Aoife glanced at Michael and gestured towards the door.

"Right, well actually," she said, "we really should get going. We'll be a few hours' guys. I'll contact you when we're ready to leave. Em, have a nice afternoon." Sherlock stood, features set, and bid them goodbye. Then turning to Molly he asked her curtly, "are you quite finished?" and she knew he wasn't referring to her coffee. She nodded defiantly at him and he glared at her. She could see the anger burning in his eyes. "Good." he said coldly, "let's continue this conversation upstairs." He stood still to let her go ahead of him and they both walked silently to the lifts.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

The tense silence between Sherlock and Molly continued throughout the short trip in the lift and to the door of their suite. Molly chewed on her bottom lip and tried to control her racing heartbeat, and her distress. She could feel how furious he was with her; it was emanating from him in waves, and an angry Sherlock was a force to be reckoned with. It was almost overwhelming and he had yet to speak a word. Her breath caught in her throat when she noticed he stopped at the same door as their previous stay, and she knew it wasn't a coincidence. It had been a romantic gesture on his part and it was ruined now.

His silence continued as he led her into the room. He shut the door behind her and flung his coat angrily on the giant bed. Molly grimaced, and her hand trembled as she placed her coat and handbag down on the bed beside his. She took a seat in the lounge area, all the while looking down at the floor. He sat in the armchair opposite her, looking directly at her for a long moment, until she looked up at him. His body language was not encouraging. Although he was sitting back in the armchair, his back was ramrod straight. He had one elbow on the arm and his hand under his chin, in the classic 'thinker' pose. His mouth was taut and he was breathing deeply through his nose. Eventually he sighed as she stared back down at the floor.

"I can barely trust myself to speak, Molly," he finally said. She looked at him, but didn't respond. "There are two serious issues here and I would like to address them one at a time", he continued, and his tone was harsh and dripping with sarcasm. "Firstly, do you actually know me at all?, or do you really take me for some kind of idiot?" Molly glowered defensively at him.

"Of course I bloody don't Sherlock…" He spluttered out a disbelieving breath.

"Well after that bitchy tirade downstairs, you'd convince most people into thinking that you do," he said scathingly. Molly sat back in her chair and folded her arms tightly across her chest.

"It was hardly a 'tirade,' to be fair..."

"And now you are being deliberately provocative. Unwise, Molly." She glared furiously at him.

"Do not threaten me, Sherlock." He expelled a harsh and angry breath.

"I am not 'threatening' you. I am merely stating that further provocation is not an appropriate or advisable response." Sherlock's voice was icy and contemptuous, and she hated it.

"Fine," she fumed. "Let's deal with 'issue one' first, as you so logically suggest. I asked you downstairs if you intended to meet a known murderer at his request, a question which you seem to have taken great exception to. Correct?" Sherlock scowled and nodded his head. "Right," she continued, well, it's not like that would be an unprecedented action on your part, now, is it?" He pursed his lips insolently.

"Oh really? Do go on Molly; enlighten me." Molly hissed out an angry breath.

"And you accuse me of provocation!" She paused for a moment and then continued. "Right, where to begin? You left a room full of policemen, and John, to go on a joyride, alone, with a homicidal taxi driver, and you nearly got killed. You met with a mass murderer, the original Jim Moriarty, again alone, at that bloody awful swimming pool, and nearly got killed." Her voice quietened then, as she continued tersely, "and they are just the examples I know about." Sherlock squirmed inwardly, conceding to himself how those actions would appear, but he was too far gone, too angry, so he lashed out defensively.

"I seem to recall you met 'Dear Jim' alone yourself more than once, Molly. I never did ask you, how was he, any good?" Molly stared at him in shock. Hurt and pain flashed across her face. Her eyes looked stricken as she stared at him, and Sherlock knew he'd gone too far. She froze, aghast, for a long moment. Then she stood up slowly and walked back towards the bed. Taking up her coat and bag she turned at the door and said to him, her voice quivering brokenly,

"Regarding 'issue number two,' I should never have spoken to you like that in front of our friends. For that, I am truly sorry." Then she turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Sherlock slumped down in his chair and tugged his hair in frustration and despair. He should never have said that. He knew that much. Molly had a narrow escape from Moriarty, who'd used her as a pawn to get to him. It was a lousy thing for him to do, to throw him in her face like that, and he had hurt her badly.

He put his face in his palms and groaned loudly. Whatever moral high-ground he had at the outset of their row was now well and truly vanquished by his own shoddy behaviour. He stood up and stalked over to the window, just in time to see Molly cross the road from the hotel and head into the park. Her head was down and her hands were bunched into tight fists in the pockets of her coat. She was almost running. Sherlock's heart ached, like someone was squeezing it inside his chest. He spotted one of Mycroft's men shadowing her and was relieved about that. He sat back down in the chair. He was completely unsure now what to do to fix this.

Molly strode blindly through the park, desperately trying to control herself. She took fast deep breaths and dug her nails into her palms, a habit she had long adopted when she was desperately fighting tears. Her mind was racing, repeatedly replaying their row. She was reeling from the adrenalin of it, and the hurt of his final words to her. She walked briskly through the bustling park. St Stephen's Green was a favourite place for Dubliners, a beautiful haven in the heart of the city centre, and it was always busy. Eventually, her heartbeat began to slow. She was trembling though, and not just from the cold. She felt completely distraught. She walked and walked, lapping the park a few times, and then left it, almost on auto-pilot, and walked blindly up the main pedestrian street, Grafton Street, subconsciously re-tracing the steps she'd taken with Sherlock on their last visit.

Spotting a Costa Coffee outlet, she ducked in and ordered a latte, in an attempt to calm herself, heat herself up, and process what had just happened. She cut a forlorn figure as she sat nursing her coffee cup. Molly sat there for a long time. She kept hearing Sherlock's derogatory tone, asking her if she really knew him at all. Her thoughts led her on to who Sherlock was, to the gifts he was bestowed with, the things he was capable of, and all that he'd already achieved. With a sinking heart, she realised that she'd done him a grave disservice.

He was absolutely right; not about the Jim comment; that was just bloody obnoxious, but he was right about her unwarranted and inappropriate reaction to what was effectively his area of expertise, his job. And he was an expert. In her more rational and objective frame of mind she knew that, just like she also knew that he was the best in the world at what he did. She'd let her heart rule her head, let her deep love for him and her terror of him getting badly hurt or killed take over, and so she'd run her mouth off.

She'd totally messed up, she thought despairingly. This was supposed to be their afternoon alone together, and she'd ruined it. She desperately hoped that it was only just their day that she'd ruined. She winced with the visceral pain of even the notion having done more serious damage to their relationship. Feeling fear and upset taking over again, she stood up sharply and left the café. She vowed there and then to fully accept the risks involved with Sherlock's job, and to trust him to manage that risk.

Molly walked the streets aimlessly and after a half hour or so she found herself once again outside the church in Westland Row, where he'd brought her to show her St Valentines' heart. Her eyes filled with tears and she brushed them away as she went inside. The church was quiet and peaceful. She sighed deeply and walked to the long seat beside the shrine.

She sat there for a long minute, deep in thought, mentally struggling with how to try to fix the damage she'd done, when she felt someone sitting down in the pew next to her. She turned her head and looked straight into Sherlock's pained and contrite eyes, and her own brimmed with tears. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Molly. Please forgive me?" he whispered hoarsely, and her tears escaped and fell down her cheeks. She launched herself into his arms and hugged his neck. Sherlock exhaled deeply in relief as he pulled her closely into him.

"No! I'm sorry. It was all my fault Sherlock. I should never have said it, should never have doubted you. I do know you. You know I do…" and her voice broke in a muffled sob. He held her tightly to his chest and shushed her, pressing his lips into her cheek. He shook his head vehemently.

"What you said came out of fear Molly. I should never have said what I did. That came from a far darker place and I am truly sorry."

Molly clung onto him so hard that he could feel her heart thumping against his chest. He held her for a while and then nuzzled her cheek gently with his own. "Let's go back to our room and talk, Molly, what do you say?" She nodded into his neck and then pulled back to look at him. Cupping his face with her palms, she kissed his forehead for a long moment and then standing up, she held out her hand to him. He smiled and took it, teasingly making her pull him up to his feet, and then wrapped his arm across her shoulder as they walked down the aisle and out of the church.

They didn't say much as they returned to the hotel. but they rarely broke physical contact with each other though. Molly linked his arm and entwined her fingers in his as they passed by Trinity College, cut through Kildare Street and returned to the hotel. Sherlock pulled her to him as soon as they entered the lift, in marked contrast to the terrible tension between them the last time they were in it. No tension this time though. As soon as the doors closed she turned into his open arms and melted into his embrace. She tilted her head up and he kissed her softly and sweetly on the mouth. She reached up and ran her hand through his hair, halting at the short cut at the sides. She pulled back and frowned momentarily at him. "Will you do me a favour Sherlock?" He looked earnestly at her.

"Anything, Molly."

She grinned cheekily at him.

"Will you grow your bloody curls back please?!" Sherlock chuckled and dipped down to kiss her again, murmuring into her mouth,

"Yes darling. I will."

The lift stopped and, keeping a strong arm around her shoulders, he led her out through the doors and up the corridor to their room. When they were inside, he opened her coat and slipped it off over her shoulders. Her hands were very cold and he rubbed them with his. "Let's get some hot food into you Molly." She nodded and ran her hands under his jacket and around his hips in a hug.

"You should eat too. You have a flight to catch."

He tensed and she held him tighter and pressed her forehead into his chest. "It's fine Sherlock. I've given it a lot of thought and I realise I reacted very badly to what is, essentially, your job. It won't happen again, I promise."

He looked down into her eyes and just smiled gently at her and nodded. He stroked her cheek and then shucked off his coat and jacket.

"They have Irish Stew here. It's a signature dish. That'll heat you up, and yes Molly, I'll have some too", and she laughed. He ordered their food and sat down in a deep armchair, holding out his hand for her. She sat down in the opposite chair though and looked apprehensively at him.

"Just a minute Sherlock", she said firmly, and he shifted uneasily in his chair. "Let's address the other thing, ok? Is there anything you want to ask me?" He shook his head.

"I don't have the right to ask you any such thing Molly. It is quite simply, none of my business." She smiled enigmatically at him.

"That's right, it isn't', but it is obviously bothering you. Can't you deduce it?" He shook his head diffidently.

"No, it isn't clear, but it is irrelevant. Please darling, will you just come here to me?"

Molly relented, walked over to him, and slid onto his lap. He sighed contentedly and caressed her back. "I'm really very sorry I hurt you, Molly". She ran her thumb along the frown lines between his eyes, smoothing them away.

"I know you are. Now, listen to me Sherlock Holmes, I'm saying this once and then we will never discuss it again. I did not have sex with Jim Moriarty. I did kiss him goodnight, once, and, if I recall, it left me cold. Don't you know why I went out with him those few times?" Sherlock was beginning to look a little smug. He smirked and shook his head. She snorted gently. "Yes you do; you just want me to say it!" His laughed his deep gravelly laugh,

"Oh please go on, tell me, I could be missing something!" She rolled her eyes and continued.

"I went out with him because he always wanted to talk about you, and so did I. Now shut it!" He raised his eyebrows suggestively at her and then pulled her in for a deep kiss. They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Sherlock frowned. It was a little fast for their room service, even for the Shelbourne. He released her, but not before he ran a caressing hand along her thigh, pausing at the clasp of her stocking.

"Oh hello!" he purred deeply into her ear, and Molly was trembling again, for an entirely different reason.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

There was a knock on the door again, but still nobody was calling out 'room service.' Sherlock motioned to Molly to stay in the lounge section of their suite and approached the door cautiously. "Who's there?" he enquired loudly, standing against the wall.

"Mr Holmes? Might I have a quick word with you please"

"I said, who are you?" Sherlock demanded impatiently.

"Just a friendly messenger Sir, please can you let me in and call off the dogs?" Sherlock opened the door and saw a short, middle-aged man flanked on both sides by Mycroft's men.

"He's unarmed Sir," the agents confirmed. Sherlock nodded and beckoned the man into the room. He scanned him rapidly, and did not invite him to sit down. The man nodded to Molly.

"Howaya Dr Hooper, it's nice to see you in the whole of your health after that carry on recently." Sherlock sighed in irritation.

"Never mind all that, you have a message, you say? Tell me something, what possible message could Sinn Fein have for me? The man's eyes widened in shock and then he spluttered out an incredulous laugh.

"Jesus, you're every bit as good as they say you are!" He shifted uncomfortably and double checked that the door was closed before he continued.

"This is an entirely unofficial visit, Mr Holmes. Please be clear, I do not come here this afternoon on behalf of the Party like, but as a general courtesy to Aoife Quinn, and I suppose by default, to your brother, of whom we in the Party are well acquainted."

"Yes, I imagine you are. I am not my brother. 'Politics' bore me. What do you want?" The man smiled placating, holding his palms up to him.

"I come in peace Mr Holmes, to do you a favour." He nodded his head towards the seats and Sherlock sighed and over-emphasised an invitation for the man to sit down, and then sat beside Molly on the couch. The man, who clearly wasn't going to give his name, cleared his throat and continued. "Our friends in America have informed us that a certain individual, long of our acquaintance, killed his demented old brother in a nursing home stateside, big brave man that he is. They also tell us that this same charmer is gunning for you, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock tilted his head curiously at him and replied dryly, "that's so sweet of you, to be concerned for my welfare, but this is not news to me. Thank you and goodbye." He flicked his hand towards the door in a dismissive gesture. The man rolled his eyes and continued.

"Well, if you know so much, his current address is probably no good to you then?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed at him.

"And why would you give me that? No wait, let me tell you. You or your henchmen exiled 'Jim Moriarty the Elder' decades ago, letting him live on condition he didn't thread on your toes. He complied, until now. The brother he killed is one of your supporters, he's been funding you for years, but you cannot exact revenge for his murder yourselves, now that you're 'all legitimate', so," Sherlock paused to laugh incredulously, "you thought you'd send 'the British Government's' brother to do it for you? Sherlock clapped his hands with mirth. "That's brilliant! Oh, Mycroft's going to love this!" His phone, as if on cue, rang in his jacket pocket from the bed.

The man shook his head in denial. "We are not 'sending' you anywhere Mr Holmes. What you do, or where you go with this information, well, that is entirely up to you." He stood up and retrieved an envelope from his pocket. He placed it on the arm of the chair he was sitting in and nodding at both of them, he left the room. Molly looked Sherlock with raised eyebrows.

"He was a bit slimy, wasn't he?" making him laugh. "Yes, he was rather, wasn't he? I get that a lot." And she laughed in return. His phone rang again, just as there was another knock on the door. This time it was Room Service with their food. Molly let them in while Sherlock picked up the envelope, examining it in the light. The phone was relentless however so he answered it, greeting his outraged brother.

"What the hell did he want Sherlock?" Sherlock sighed and protested,

"You cannot blame me for that visit Mycroft. For God's sake, all I wanted is an uninterrupted afternoon with Molly!"

Mycroft cleared his throat and moderated his tone.

"Right, yes, ahem, how is Molly?" Sherlock threw back his head and rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Tell Aoife she's fine; we're fine." He sighed deeply. "You can also tell her I did not break my promise. That man came here uninvited."

"I know that Sherlock, but for heaven's sake, what did he want?" Sherlock told him and Mycroft asked him for the address.

"I haven't had the chance to open the damn envelope Mycroft. Too many interruptions."

"Do it now, I'll wait." Sherlock sighed, and refused, to the exasperation of his brother. Sherlock mollified him by promising that he'd tell him when they all reconvened in the house and warning him that he didn't want the Americans tipped off. He was worried that they'd scare him off. Mycroft, reluctantly, agreed to wait, and told him Aoife and Michael had made progress and would be there to collect them in under an hour. Time was short, he warned him, as his flight to New York was leaving at 02.00.

"That better be first class Mycroft," and Mycroft answered with a laugh, leaving him none the wiser.

He sat at the table that Molly had set for them both and opened the envelope. There were three addresses on it; two in New York and one in West Kerry, in Ireland. Sherlock frowned in concentration. Molly watched him in amusement while they ate. He was eating, but she knew he was just going through the motions to humour her. He was miles away and she could almost see his great brain working in his head. She loved looking at him when he was figuring something out. He wasn't quite in his 'Mind Palace', but he was close. It was a very attractive sight; highly arousing actually, she thought.

She tidied their plates away on the food trolley and checked the time. She figured they had another half an hour before Aoife and Michael arrived to collect them. Molly stood up and went into their bathroom. She touched up her makeup, vamping it up slightly, and then pulled her dress over her head and lay it on the side of the bath. Examining herself in the long mirror, she straightened her stockings, then re-snapped the garter belt, which matched her black satin bra and pants.

She looked down nervously and decided to leave her high-heeled black leather boots on. If she was going to do this; she may as well go all out. Their afternoon doesn't have to be a total disaster, she reasoned, and Sherlock was going to be busy for the rest of the day and night, and then gone to the States for God knows how long? Deciding to be brazen and see this through, she brushed her hair out, took a deep breath and then strode boldly out of the bathroom.

Sherlock was still sitting at the table where she left him, hands steepled under his chin, and eyes unfocussed. Molly walked slowly towards him, hips swaying languidly, poured a glass of water and pouted her lips slightly as she sipped from it. She gazed at him boldly and smirked when she saw his lips twitch. Then, when he licked his lips and she knew she had him. She cocked a hip cheekily and drew her hand down to the garter belt, toying with it. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and locked eyes on her and then deliberately ran his eyes up and down her body. He met her eyes again and smirked boldly at her. Desire flooded through Molly and she smiled back at him.

"You are completely stunning Molly," he murmured, and pushing back his chair, he held his hand out for her. Her eyes never left his as she approached him, stopping still between his legs. He sat forward in the wide dining chair and reached for her, taking her two hands in his and kissing them reverently. Then he ran his hands slowly across her stomach and around to caress her buttocks. Molly's pulse raced and her breathing accelerated, and he knew, and his mouth curled in satisfaction. He clasped her hips with strong hands, pulling her tightly in to press her against his groin, leaving her in no doubt as to the extent of his own arousal. He leaned forward to lick a bold stripe across her stomach and she groaned as she gripped his shoulders tightly.

He looked up at her, desire blazing in his silver blue eyes, and the sight of him took her breath away. A practised hand reached behind her back and flicked her bra open and removed it. He smiled at her and cupped her breasts in his large, sculpted hands. Pulling her closer to him, he kissed her breasts, nuzzling and tugging at her nipples and she groaned and ran her fingers to the back of his head. She ground her hips into his groin and then he was the one moaning.

"Christ, Molly!" he growled, as she reached her hand down, undid his trousers and gripping him firmly in her hand, she began to stroke him. He stalled her hand and ran his own under the waist band of her pants, deft fingers exploring and stroking her. He hissed with pleasure as he felt how ready she was for him. He gripped her buttocks firmly, as he kissed her low down on her stomach and then tugged her pants down her legs, and away. He slid to his knees then and stroked her thighs, kissing and licking his way up to her clitoris. It was too much for Molly, and she shuddered out her climax under his talented mouth.

Molly's legs buckled from under her and he smiled in satisfaction as he caught her. Lifting her up gently, he sat back down in the chair. She straddled his lap, flushed and panting and hugging his neck as he caressed her soothingly. Sherlock took her face in his hands and kissed her lovingly. "You are one magnificent woman Molly Hooper." She kissed him back deeply, licking his lips and exploring his mouth with her tongue and he groaned as he ran his hands all over her body.

Sherlock couldn't get enough of her, but opted to dilly dally around her garter belt, growling in approval at the garment. Molly reached down between them and gripped him again in her hand. She reared up, and placing him at her entrance, she eased down until she took all of him inside her, gasping as she adjusted to his girth. Sherlock hissed in a harsh breath and cupped her face in his hands, locking eyes with her as he began to thrust up into her. She clung on to his shoulders and met him, thrust for thrust, fast and furious, until they both climaxed together. She slumped down on his shoulder and hugged him hard as they came back down to earth slowly.

Sherlock's phone rang and they both began to laugh at the timing. He lifted her gently off him, handing her napkins from the table, and fixed himself up with a mischievous and very boyish grin. Ignoring his phone, he scooped her up and carried her to the bathroom. Depositing her gently down on her feet, he turned and gathered her clothes and brought them to her. Molly cleaned herself hastily and began to redress while Sherlock called Aoife back, telling her they'd be in the car park to meet them in a few minutes. Returning to her side, he washed his hands and then he turned her and gently tilted her chin up to look at her.

He scanned her face and then smiled tenderly at her. "I'll be back before you know it Molly."

"I know you will. I just…, well, maybe I wanted to remind you of what you're missing while you're away." He frowned at that and she sighed and shook her head. "No, that's not quite right." She sighed as she tried to clarify how she felt. She took one of his hands in hers and ran her thumbs over the back of his knuckles as she looked up at him earnestly.

"Since we've got together, circumstances have sent us hurtling forward at a breakneck pace, from danger to danger, country to country. It's separated us and tested us. Making love to you like that, it, well, it grounds me, grounds us." He pulled her into his chest and sighed as he held her there.

"Oh Molly. Don't you know? I am yours, completely yours, and no case can ever change that." She smiled happily and then looked up at him cheekily.

"Well, there may have been a smidgen of 'make up sex' thrown into the mix there too."

Sherlock threw back his head and laughed as he released her. He turned and gathered their coats and her bag briskly and led her out of the room. As he wrapped an arm around her in the lift down to the carpark he shook his head in mirth.

"There is no response to that that will not get me into trouble so I am not saying a word." Molly giggled and snuggled into him.

"See? You really are a genius!" and he swatted her playfully on the ass in response, making her squeal as the lift doors opened. Michael and Aoife were pulled up to the door and waiting for them. As they both climbed into the back seat, Michael raised a bold brow at Sherlock.

"Not a word, Irish!" Sherlock quipped and Michael snorted as he drove out into the busy Dublin traffic.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Sherlock looked speculatively at Aoife from the back of the car as they cruised down the motorway to Wicklow. She was a ball of energy, and her eyes were glittering with barely suppressed excitement. He leaned forward and nudged her shoulder. "Well come on then Aoife, spill. What have you found out? She turned around and grinned at him.

"Wait for Mycroft, or, tell me the addresses."

Sherlock paused suddenly. He wanted to discuss the Kerry address with Mycroft first. He thought the location in Co. Kerry was very close to the place where Aoife's twin brother was murdered by Moriarty. He was reluctant to spring that on her in case the actual address was more significant than he thought. He was very fond of Aoife and would do nothing to upset her if it could be avoided. He turned to Michael and joked, "how about you Michael, productive day?" Aoife snorted with laughter.

"Not a chance Sherlock, come on now, give me at least the Irish one?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

"Nice try, Ms. Quinn. I never said there was an 'Irish' one." She chuckled and then teased him.

"We had such an eventful afternoon. A mine of information, that place." Sherlock spluttered out an amused laugh.

"Whatever do we do now Aoife?" She turned her head right around; the curiosity was killing her, and she knew it was killing him, not to have all the information available.

"'Quid pro quo'. You give me something and I'll give you something."

"Fine. You first," he retorted. She threw her eyes in the air and laughed.

"Oh, all right then. We had no difficulty finding information about Jim Moriarty Snr. in the Intelligence Unit. They have lots and lots of juicy data on him," she paused for effect and he tutted with impatience, so she grinned and continued. "I thought it was odd, that he wasn't killed by the IRA for threading on their toes so brazenly here. 'Exile' was usually a punishment for lesser 'crimes' than his. I was right. His file is current."

" It was a ruse. He never fell out with them. He worked for them from America," Sherlock scoffed, "were his family here in on it too?"

"That's all you get. My turn." Sherlock smiled knowingly.

"Three addresses. One in Manhattan, one in White Plains, New York State, and one in Ireland." Aoife pursed her lips speculatively.

"They're upscale areas. Owned or rented? Where in Ireland? Oh come on," she pleaded, "tell me!" Sherlock shook his head with a grin.

"Nope. That's all you're getting."

Michael rolled his eyes and told them to "grow up, the pair of you, we'll be home in a few minutes," and Sherlock caught Molly grinning at him in amusement from the corner of his eye. He pouted at her and she choked out the laugh she'd been trying to subdue. His lips quirked and he covered her hand with his and raised an eyebrow at her enquiringly.

"Something amusing you, Dr Hooper?"

"Just you, darling." He pretended to frown at her and she looked at him indulgently. She leaned over and whispered, "you're adorable," into his ear. He glowered in response.

"Dr Hooper. I am the world's only 'Consulting Detective'. I have an international reputation. I am far from 'adorable'. Take that back this instant!" Molly and Aoife laughed in unison. Then Aoife looked at him affectionately.

"For the record, I think you're quite adorable too, Sherlock." Michael laughed loudly from the front of the car.

"Don't know what your problem is mate. Two hot women find you adorable." Sherlock paused comically to consider this.

"I suppose that could be another way of looking at it," and the women laughed again at his shenanigans.

Sherlock resumed his earlier game of making Molly blush. Well, he reasoned, he was bored, she was the one that was really 'adorable', and besides, it was most amusing. He stroked the palm of her hand lightly with his thumb. She rolled her eyes at him, but he could see her colour rising and feel her pulse accelerating under his fingers. He grinned boldly at her and she widened her eyes at him warningly, and tried to tug her hand away. He tugged it right back and raised it playfully to his lips, and she smothered a giggle.

Michael glanced at Aoife in amusement and she smiled conspiratorially back at him, but they both said nothing, because this was supposed to be Sherlock and Molly's romantic week alone together after months of separation, and once again, their plans had been thwarted. Aoife suspected that Sherlock was trying to distract Molly from their imminent separation too, and judging from his gravelly whispering and her low giggles and attempts at 'shushing' him from the back seat, he was succeeding admirably.

She thought of Mycroft then, waiting in her home for their return. Their home now, she thought, because she loved her house so much more with him in it. Sherlock and Molly too, because they were fast beginning to feel like family. Mycroft loved his younger brother deeply, for all their pretence of sibling rivalry. He talked about him a lot to her, about how brilliant he was, and all his accomplishments, along with their difficult history. She knew how much Sherlock and Molly loved being in her house too, and she was happy about that. Since Oisin died, Aoife had always felt alone. She had lots of good friends, and loving parents, but the loss of her twin brother had left a void in her life, until Mycroft.

He was, quite simply, the centre of her world now, and seldom out of her thoughts for long. He was quite brilliant of course, and strong and powerful; all of that she knew, and it undoubtedly attracted her, but it was the way he made her feel cherished, safe and loved, that really drew her to him. It was extraordinary, she thought, how much he understood her. In just a matter of the first few days of being with him, he could read her mood perfectly, no matter what front she put up. He let her be herself though, and waited for her to come to him when she needed him, rather than crowd her or try to control her, and that made her love him all the more, because power and control were second nature to this man.

She was used to power and control too. She was the CEO of the biggest company in Ireland, and by default, she was also the wealthiest female in Ireland. She had properties and hotels all over the world and she was on secondment from that company to work for the Irish Government as a consultant in security and development. All of that had intimidated other men before, or worse, attracted less scrupulous ones. Not Mycroft though. She smiled to herself. There wasn't a person on the planet that could intimidate him, and he was very wealthy in his own right. She was sometimes concerned about conflict of interest between them on a political level, but it had not been an issue to date, and they had agreed a strategy to manage it, should the occasion arise.

She began to think about this latest threat, and of what they'd discovered in Central Intelligence. She considered the tip off information Michael and Sherlock had received from different sources and thought how easy the case should be to resolve. Something wasn't right though; something was 'off'. Aoife frowned, and a feeling of dreadful foreboding swept over her. She felt her heartbeat accelerating with the force of the wave of anxiety suddenly consuming her.

Inhaling long deep breaths, she forced herself to bring it under control, knowing it was irrational, and hoped nobody had noticed, but as Michael steered the car up her driveway and they all clambered out and into the house, Sherlock paused in the hall and touched her elbow, frowning quizzically at her. "Are you alright, Aoife?" he enquired quietly. She swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded at him and then suddenly pulled him into a tight hug. Sherlock returned her embrace without a second's hesitation.

"You will be careful Sherlock, won't you?" she pleaded, as she clasped him to her. He smiled gently at her. "Not you and all Aoife! As if this old gangster is any match for me." She tapped his forehead lightly with her finger.

"Brains cannot stop a bullet, my dear. I just ask that you be extra vigilant. Ok?" He looked solemnly at her and nodded his head. Mycroft was watching from the door of the study and Sherlock caught his eye and signalled silently to him. He hardly needed to though. He'd already picked up the tension in Aoife. Sherlock released her with a quick peck on her cheek and began to follow Molly up the stairs.

"Hey Mykie. We're just going to freshen up. How about we reconvene in a half hour in the kitchen?" Mycroft smiled at the nickname and nodded at his brother.

"Does that suit you too Michael?" he checked, and Michael nodded.

"Yes, that's grand. I have some calls to make. I'll see you all then," and he disappeared into the living room. Mycroft looked in tender enquiry at Aoife and she smiled weakly at him. He opened his arms and she melted into them. He wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her into him, stroking the back of her head with the other. Aoife gripped his back, clenching his shirt tightly with her fingers, and he continued to hold her, and drop gentle kisses on her forehead, and on the crown of her head, until her fingers began to slacken and he felt her pulse evening out. Turning back to the study, he clasped her to his hip and led her in, closing the door behind them.

He settled her on the couch close beside him and pulled her back into his arms. She sighed as she rested her head on his chest and wrapped her arm around his waist. She was silent for a long while, and he waited her out. Finally, she tilted her head up and kissed him deeply. "I'm sorry Mycroft, please don't worry. There's nothing wrong." He shook his head slowly at her.

"No Aoife. You are not a woman that upsets easily, so please don't be embarrassed or apologetic. I'd rather you just tell me what happened?" She looked up earnestly at him, her sharp green eyes meeting his.

"That's just it, Mycroft. Nothing happened." She paused to gather her thoughts. "We were on our way home in the car, slagging Sherlock, and everything was fine." Mycroft laughed gently and urged her to continue. "He'd started messing with Molly, you know what he's like with her, teasing her and making her blush, and the two of them were so wonderful." She smiled shyly then and told him, "I thought of you then, and how good you are to me; how good you are for me," she stopped and ran her fingers along his cheek, "and how much I love you."

He smiled and kissed her, but still he said nothing for he knew there was more. "I was thinking of how happy we are, all of us, and how this case should be a doddle, and then the strangest thing, Mycroft. I got this awful sense of danger and yes, it did upset me a lot, because I couldn't bear it if anything happened to any of us. Not now, when we've just found real happiness."

She shook her head, as if to clear it and then looked startled at him. "This is a trap Mycroft. I don't mean Sherlock's meeting with Moriarty in New York. There's something else going on entirely. We're being set up. I can feel it, in fact, I'm sure of it, but I don't think the trap is in America at all." She was almost pleading with him now. "I don't have any evidence to back it up though. It's pure instinct, intuition, if you like, and I know you don't rate that very highly, but you must listen to me, please Mycroft; something is not right."

Mycroft smiled softly and her and kissed her tenderly on the lips. "Oh my dear girl, you are so very smart, and, for the record, I trust your 'instincts' implicitly. They've certainly served both our nations well in the past. I also happen to think you are quite right. In fact, I'm sure of it, and by now, I'll bet you, so is Sherlock." Relief flooded through Aoife. She hugged him more tightly and leaned her forehead against his.

"Then what is it, Mycroft. What's really going on?" He checked his watch and then stroked her hair.

"I have a fair idea but let's wait until we pool all the information together. Between the lot of us, we'll figure it out and respond accordingly. I particularly want to hear about the 'Sinn Fein' intervention in the Shelbourne, word for word. I believe that was a thinly veiled warning, Aoife, and an opportune one at that. Was there an Irish address, did Sherlock say?"

"Yes there was, but he wouldn't tell me where. To be fair, that was because I wouldn't tell him much either; I told him he had to wait for you." She bit her lip guiltily, but Mycroft just laughed. His mind was racing though. Sherlock should have asked Aoife details about an Irish address. He knew his brother and knew he would want information about the area, and want it immediately; but something had stopped him. That meant the address was possibly connected to her and he didn't want to upset her, or wanted Mycroft to be informed first. He needed to speak to Sherlock now.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was lying on their bed watching Molly as she finished changing her clothes. He was disappointed about the removal of her stockings, and told her so, eliciting yet another eye roll and smile from her. She had donned a slim fitting track suit which hugged her in all the right places though, so he was happy enough with that, he informed her. He was happier again when she climbed up and lay beside him, snuggling into his chest. "Do you share every thought that enters your head, Sherlock?" she teased him and he tickled her hip in retaliation, making her squirm and shriek with laughter. His beautiful, laughing face loomed over hers and she pulled him down for a deep kiss, sighing happily as he coaxed her mouth open and explored it thoroughly with his tongue. Then, satisfied, he smacked one last kiss on her lips and answered his breathless pathologist. "Oh no Molly. You'd have a permanent blush if that were the case," and she grinned at him.

He pulled her back into his arms and she purred contentedly and lay her head on his chest, idly drawing imaginary circles over his ribs. He twirled strands of her hair around his fingers and mentally reviewed the case to date. Something was bothering him. He picked up his phone and texted Mycroft the address in Kerry and a question mark. It was a long minute before his brother answered.

'Half a mile from that fatal cliff, and the house that JM stayed in. Kitchen, now, please Sherlock'.

Sherlock frowned at the phone and then tilted Molly's head up to look at her. "I have to go have a word with Mycroft. Will you go find Aoife and keep her company please Molly? This case has just got personal for her, relating to Oisin." Molly's eyes widened in alarm and she jumped off the bed without another word, and went in search of Aoife.

Sherlock found his normally unrufflable brother pacing the kitchen floor in agitation. He walked straight to the large dresser and took out the bottle of Middletons he knew Aoife kept there, and then extracted two Waterford crystal whiskey glasses from the cabinet. Pouring a generous measure, he pressed the glass into his brother's hand. "Drink this, while I recount verbatim what Desmond Murphy, the Sinn Fein guy, said earlier." As Mycroft raised his glass to his lips, he did just that. Mycroft paid particular attention to the reference to Aoife.

" _This is an entirely unofficial visit, Mr Holmes. Please be clear, I do not come here this afternoon on behalf of the Party like, but as a general courtesy to Aoife Quinn, and I suppose by default, to your brother, of whom we in the Party are well acquainted,"_ Sherlock directly quoted.

Mycroft sighed deeply. "That was a direct tip-off Sherlock, or as close as it gets from a party ultra- sensitive to any accusation of 'informing'. It's a juggling act for them, to keep their more hard-line Republican members satisfied with the power-sharing arrangement. If it got out that they assisted Aoife, or even worse for them, me, by providing information on a known 'accomplice', well, it would cause a whole load of problems for them."

"They did though Mycroft, and they did it for Aoife, because she's the target, not me. Aoife has sought justice for her brother's murder for over a decade. She came to you, and ultimately, me, for assistance, setting off a chain of events that culminated in the death of his last two children, right here in her home. This 'meeting' I was summonsed to in New York was a ruse to get her out of the safety of your home in London, remove her from your impenetrable protection, and, by drawing me out of this house, away from mine." Mycroft's mouth was set in a grim line, and his hand was on his phone when Aoife, Michael and Molly arrived into the kitchen.

"Wait Mycroft, please, before you call London. Let's sit down for a minute. We're safe here for a while, at least until Sherlock leaves for New York." Sherlock looked at her in astonishment.

"I'm not going to New York now, Aoife!" She turned to him and answered him firmly and calmly.

"Yes, Sherlock. You are."


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Mycroft and Sherlock threw a perplexed glance at each other and then smirked in unison. Turning back to Aoife, Sherlock laughed and she smiled in return. "'Sherlock Holmes' is getting on a flight to New York with Michael early in the morning. We're going to Kerry though, very clever Aoife." Michael frowned in annoyance.

"Can we all catch up please? Sit down everybody, this is doing my head in. We need to pool all information so we join the pieces together. I have the gist of what's happening but I have information myself to share, so please, sit." Aoife put a placating hand on his shoulder and gestured to everyone to sit around the table. Mycroft nodded but excused himself.

"We have an agent that doubles as Sherlock, do excuse me while I set this in motion, I have to get him to Dublin Airport to hook up with Michael. I'm terribly sorry Michael, but can you hold off on your report for a few minutes please, I'd like to hear it." Michael threw his hands in the air.

"Fine. Sherlock, can you start then, and fill me in on the addresses in New York at least, seems I'm going there in the morning!" Michael was thoroughly pissed off now. Sherlock cleared his throat and responded quickly, knowing that the way Mycroft and himself sometimes moved too far ahead of others around them could grate on his friends. John had told him off often enough.

"You're right Michael, and I'm sorry. Things just came to a head there in the last few minutes. Let me recap." Sherlock told him about their theory on the Sinn Fein intervention and how they now believed that Aoife was the one in the crosshairs. Michael nodded in agreement.

"That makes more sense. No offense Sherlock, but they wouldn't be all that concerned if it was you. Aoife has worked with them tirelessly, she's Irish, she's highly regarded by the Government and the people, and a major employer here. If they were connected to her being harmed in any way, they'd lose a lot of votes, let's put it that way."

"Exactly." Sherlock agreed. "I was just the bait to get her back to Ireland." He threw a watchful glance at her. Aoife's mouth was set in a grim line. She'd opened her laptop and put in the address in Kerry. She smiled grimly at the group.

"Who needs an Intelligence Unit when we have 'Google Maps?" She spun the laptop around to show the others a photo of the property. The large house on the screen looked brand new and was magnificent. It was built sympathetically to the wild rustic landscape of West Kerry and was constructed entirely in the local stone. "Needless to say, this is not the same house that young Jim Moriarty stayed in that summer. It was a modest bungalow at that time. This asshole must have purchased it and then knocked it to build this." She paused to send off an email to the Intelligence Unit, instructing them to find out who was the registered owner. "Sick bastard, he must have been so proud of his boy, to go to the trouble of acquiring the exact property," she muttered. "Let's see who pays the property tax on this house, and from what bank account."

Aoife was simmering with fury. Sherlock frowned in concern. He needed cool heads or mistakes could be made. "Aoife," he said gently, "can you fill us in on what else you discovered today?" She inhaled angrily and nodded at him, as Mycroft returned and sat down beside her. He gauged her mood immediately and caught his brother's eye questioningly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in caution. Aoife pulled out a manila file from her briefcase and opening it, she began to report to the group.

"It appears that the old bastard worked on an 'if you can't beat them, join them, policy'. He certainly was exiled, but apparently on the condition that he provide them with a support network operating from the Eastern Seaboard States. Safe houses for men on the run, arms smuggling, money laundering, you name it and he provided it. I suspect that Jim Jr was in touch with 'Daddy Dearest' all along, because he emulated him. Jim Snr was the original 'consulting criminal' and he was so good, they couldn't catch him. Nobody even got near to stopping him, not the FBI and not either of our security services." She paused, indicating Mycroft, who grimaced but gestured for her to continue.

"He got a cut of each deal and I suspect, has become a very rich man. It's unclear what he's been up to since the ceasefire and 'Good Friday Agreement' but I can imagine there has been a very uneasy relationship with Sinn Fein, now that they've gone legitimate. Unlike his brother he murdered in the nursing home, he's no Republican, and couldn't give a shit about any notions of a united Ireland. It suits Sinn Fein to assist us because I'm guessing they want rid of him now too. He killed a major fundraiser and ally of theirs when he killed his brother, and he knows where all the bodies are buried, in some cases quite literally." She took a deep breath and anger emanated from her.

"He's nothing but a criminal and a thug, and he has the audacity to think that he can fool the incredibly talented people in this room, and kill me." She wound down then and there was a brief silence. Mycroft squeezed her hand briefly and then addressed Michael.

"What have you uncovered, Michael?" Michael though, was concerned about his boss, who was also his friend.

"Aoife," he said urgently, "you need to call your full security team back here immediately, and you need to inform the Garda Rapid Response Unit of an imminent attempt on your life. You know the policy and procedure in cases like these!" She shook her head adamantly.

"No Michael, it would just scare him off; and don't you dare contact the Gardaí either!" Michael glared back at her.

"That's completely unacceptable Aoife, and you know it, Jesus Christ! You drafted the bloody procedures yourself." Mycroft cleared his throat and tried again.

"Please Michael. I hear and appreciate your concern, and I share it. Let's just pool all our information first, before deciding the next move though, ok?" Aoife and Michael were still glowering at each other but Michael conceded to Mycroft and began his report.

"Ok, firstly, my contact had another visit from Jim Moriarty's messenger. He was given the location of this 'meeting' after he confirmed that Sherlock had agreed to it. It's in the back room of a pub Moriarty's believed to legitimately own, in Brooklyn, and set for midnight tomorrow night. Make what you will of that." He paused in thought and then scanning the group, he continued, "I'm not sure that this isn't a set-up, by the way. There's nothing to stop him from sending a few shooters in to greet us, while he goes after Aoife here; two birds with one stone, so to speak. He's hardly enamoured with Sherlock either, let's face it." He paused then and looked to Sherlock for confirmation of his hypothesis and Sherlock nodded at his friend in response.

"I agree with your synopsis, Michael, and I propose you and my doppelganger play along to the very last minute, in order for us to achieve our objective here; but listen to me now Michael. Under no circumstances are you and 'Sherlock' to enter that back room." He glanced at Mycroft. "He'll go in hard and heavy, so we have to set up a 'sting' from here, and involve the FBI now, and it must be timed perfectly." He grinned at his brother, partly to break the tension in the room. "Do you think you could manage that, brother dear?" Mycroft rolled his eyes in mock disdain and the beginnings of a smile appeared on Aoife's lips. Michael finished his report by informing them that Jim Snr had not been seen in a number of months, which would support the theory that he was probably in Ireland, plotting his revenge on Aoife.

"He's here alright", Mycroft agreed and looking firmly at Aoife, he continued, "and whatever your opinion on their motivation, my dear, Sinn Fein have done us an enormous favour and saved us a lot of time. They have given us what they specifically stated is his 'current location'. By doing so, they have provided us with a huge advantage. He has no idea that we are on to him, or that we know where he is."

He paused and then looked steadily at her. Aoife's eye's narrowed at him. She knew her man and knew he was about to exert his authority now.

"You and I are staying here with Molly, Aoife, and we are carrying on as usual. We will have an armed security team with us at all times because that is normal for us. We will bump up the security on this house, but not enough to draw attention to us. Sherlock is going to Kerry alone, tonight, and as soon as he locates him, if you do not call in the armed unit, I will."

"The hell I'm staying here; I'm going with Sherlock." Aoife's mouth was set in a mutinous line.

"And play right into his hands." He sighed loudly in exasperation. "Please Aoife, think for a second. He is aware of the security here. He has a plan, which we are not yet privy to. It may well involve an all-out attack on this house. We have his address and you have the means to monitor and investigate the internet usage and mobile phone activity from that address. You cannot do that in the field with Sherlock, and confirming his location won't need two of you. You are needed here." He looked firmly at her and said, "Anyway Aoife, if we two separate now, it may well scare him off and the threat to you will remain."

Aoife glared at Mycroft and then looked appealingly at Sherlock." He shook his head calmly and said, pointing a long finger at Mycroft, "what he said…"

Her eyes flickered around the four people, all looking resolutely back at her and she closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. "Oh bloody hell! Alright, you win. I'll stay here. Christ! I hate waiting around." Mycroft exhaled audibly in relief.

"We are going to be very busy here Aoife. I can assure you there will be very little time for 'waiting around'. He turned then and addressed both Molly and Aoife determinedly. "Oh, and one more thing, under no circumstances are either of you going out running, are we clear?" Molly started to laugh and Aoife looked at her and then reluctantly spluttered laughing too.

"You're a bossy git Mycroft Holmes, and you and I are having a little chat later. Molly and I can do a self-defence workout in the gym instead, eh Molly?" Sherlock stood up grinned at her.

"Excellent idea. Car keys please?" She looked contemplatively at him and shook her head. "No, it'd take too long to drive. I'll arrange a helicopter to pick you up, but not from here, from the airport, in case anyone is watching. Anyway it would look better if you leave for the airport with Michael." Sherlock smirked at her.

"See, Aoife?" he teased, "We need you here." She glowered at him. "Oh shut up you, brat." Sherlock laughed and reached to tug her hair, but her reflexes were like quicksilver and she snatched his wrist, mid-air. He popped his eyes exaggeratedly, but he achieved his ultimate goal because Aoife spluttered out laughing. Sherlock grinned back at her, eyes dancing with mischief, and then grabbed Molly's hand. "Come help me pack?" Molly beamed at him and then gasped when he pulled her up and against him. Michael rolled his eyes impatiently.

"We leave in an hour, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. Michael was really out of sorts. Molly gestured that she'd go on ahead and he smiled appreciatively at her. Aoife raised her brows at Mycroft and left the room. Mycroft grinned ruefully and muttered "that's me summonsed. Wish me luck, boys," and followed her up to their bedroom, leaving Sherlock to speak to Michael privately.

"I'll be back down here in a few minutes Michael, ok? I want to go over that file in more detail with you," he paused and then placed his hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry I'm not going back to New York with you."

"It's not that Sherlock; well not entirely. I feel like we're winging it here and I don't like it. We're not prepared. We just don't have enough info, and Aoife's acting like she's on a fucking crusade."

Sherlock sat back down opposite him at the table and looked at him curiously, realising that Michael was really worried about Aoife. "You don't want to leave her now." Sherlock stated. Michael looked frankly at him.

"No, I don't. She's my friend and she's in danger." Sherlock smiled sardonically.

"What do you know about my brother?" Michael shrugged disparagingly.

"I do know about him Sherlock. I know he's got every resource of the United Kingdom's security forces at his fingertips but look around you. Does this look like the UK to you?" He drummed on the table with his fingers. "It's why he lured you all here. To take his armies away from him. He's even manipulated it so that you and I are also removed from her protection."

"Mycroft is well aware of that Michael. Don't forget, he does have full access to the Irish security forces, if he needs them, through Aoife, and let's be honest, probably a battalion of armed British Agents who shouldn't be here at all. Let me tell you something though, armies or alone, Mycroft Holmes is a force of nature. He is more brilliant than you can even contemplate. He has always been ten steps ahead of anyone else on the planet, except me." Michael laughed at him and Sherlock grinned back but then told him gently, "he loves the very bones of her, Michael. He would kill for her and he would die for her. The smart money is on the former."

"But she's so bloody headstrong Sherlock, you heard her just now!"

"She listens to him though, Michael; you just saw that too." His voice softened. "Look. You do know me. Do you think I would leave my Molly here with Mycroft if I had even the slightest doubt about his ability to protect her?" Michael looked steadily back at him and then shook his head.

"No I do not." He looked awkwardly down at his hands and said quietly, "She's become my family, Sherlock." Sherlock tilted his head and he looked hard at him.

"She's my family now too, Michael. Let's face it, we're all family here now, 'we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.'" Michael laughed ruefully at him as he continued. "But you are right, we are not ready, yet. That is why I need you to go to the States; to go set the bait, and then we'll trap him here in Ireland, either in Kerry, or, if necessary, in this house."

Michael's face relaxed into a grin. "Alright, Shakespeare. Go on up to Molly and I'll stick the kettle on." Sherlock laughed as he stood up to leave.

"So you should. It's way past your turn to make the tea."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Mycroft hesitated momentarily outside their bedroom door. He was feeling slightly nervous. Only this woman, he thought, could reduce him to this state. Well, he admitted to himself ruefully, Aoife, and his Mother. He set his jaw determinedly and entered the room. Aoife had her back to him and was looking out of the window into the garden. She hadn't turned around when he'd entered, which he considered an ominous sign.

"Can you close the door please Mycroft?" she asked, very politely. Shit, he thought resignedly, I'm goosed. He closed the door quietly and awaited her outburst. She turned around then and stood, tall and imposing, and he could see her eyes glinting at him from across the room. "Actually, could you lock it?" Mycroft narrowed his eyes apprehensively at her, but he did as she asked and turned the key in the door. He considered his options and decided bravado was his best approach, so he leaned nonchalantly against the door and folded his arms.

"Anything else, Aoife?" he drawled, and her lips curled up in a smirk in response. She began to move then, slowly approaching him from across the room. It was only as she neared him though, that he saw it. She had a glint in her eye alright, but it was for a very different reason than he had first envisaged. He stared at her in astonishment as she stopped, and pulling her jumper over her head, she tossed it on the floor. He watched her, completely transfixed, as her glossy amber hair tumbled down her back. Her boots were already off, and she opened her jeans and peeled them down and off her long athletic legs, never once breaking eye contact with him. He emitted an incredulous breath as she stood before him, utterly magnificent, in black silky underwear.

"Yes, there is something," she purred seductively at him, "can you guess what it is?"

Mycroft was, quite simply, gobsmacked. This was the very last thing he'd expected. He had misjudged her completely, because clearly, she'd been aroused by his assertiveness with her downstairs, and not annoyed at all. He recovered his equilibrium very quickly, and smirked boldly at her.

"Well, that wouldn't take a genius, so…" She came up to stand very close to him and then stopped, a knowing smile on her lips, and brazenly placed her hands on her hips, while he ran his eyes slowly and deliberately over her body.

"And yet I still managed to surprise you, Mycroft Holmes, genius or not," she retorted smugly. He laughed, then reached for her and pulled her hard against him, gripping the back of her head tightly with his hand, his fingers entangled in her hair, as he stared into her eyes.

"Surprise me?" he said, "Aoife, you don't just surprise me; you fascinate me," he murmured and tugging her head to him, he kissed her deeply and passionately. Aoife kissed him back hungrily. She kept kissing him as she pulled his jacket off and dropped it, then immediately went to work on his shirt buttons. He gripped her hands and then divested her of her bra with one practised flick of his fingers behind her back, and then hurriedly took his own shirt and trousers off. He reached for her again and lifting her up high by the waist, he walked with her to the bed and tossed her on it.

"You bewitch me," he continued, as he tugged her knickers down her legs and dropped them on the floor. "You amaze me," he crooned, as he ran his hands back up her legs, then gripped her knees firmly and spread them apart. Moving between them, he loomed over her, eyes glinting lustfully as he admired the sight below him, before lowering himself down to her to kiss and caress her breasts. Aoife gripped him tightly by his shoulders, her fingers digging into his back. She clamped her legs around his waist and began to slowly grind her hips up into him.

"You intoxicate me," he gasped out, as he reached down to stroke her expertly. He hissed out a satisfied breath as he felt how completely ready she was for him, and he was certainly ready for her. Grasping himself, he pierced her entrance, and then gripped her hips and thrust firmly into her. Aoife groaned out with pure pleasure as he filled her completely. He paused momentarily to give her time to adjust to him, and then he drove into her relentlessly, over and over, and she writhed and moaned underneath him. Her fingernails dug into his back as she built to a climax beneath him, gasping out his name, and she gripped him tightly to her and kissed his mouth as he followed her.

Mycroft slumped down on top of her, and she held him tightly to her as he recovered his breath and then, lifting his weight off her and onto his elbows, he gazed down at the flushed and smiling woman looking lovingly back up at him. He stroked a stray strand of her hair off her face, and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

"You enthral me and captivate me, Aoife Quinn," he told her softly, "and while I can draw a breath, no one will harm a hair on your beautiful head. Do you understand me, my love?" Her eyes brimmed with emotion as she pulled his head down to kiss him again. She was lost for words, so she just nodded her head at him as errand tears escaped down the sides of her face. Mycroft tutted and turned her deftly to lie on top of him, wrapping her up in his arms and legs, as he pulled her head onto his chest and stroked her hair. She placed soft kisses on his chest and sighed happily. A few minutes later she sat up and tapped him lightly on his shoulder.

"Come on you, Mr Holmes. Stop distracting me. We have work to do!" Mycroft spluttered out an indignant laugh.

"Me, distract you? May I remind you that it was you who seduced me this evening, Ms Quinn?" Aoife giggled as she hopped out of the bed and began to gather up their clothes.

"Well, that was really your fault, for getting all bossy and masterful with me," she said, matter-of-factly, throwing his trousers at him as she headed into the loo to freshen up, and he laughed again.

"I shall have to keep that in mind," he quipped, and she stuck her head round the door to throw him a warning look, but he just smirked and began to dress.

In their bedroom further up the long landing; Molly sat on their bed watching Sherlock as he threw 'a few necessities,' as he described them, into a holdall. "Is Michael going to be ok, Sherlock?" He looked up at her and smiled reassuringly.

"He'll be fine; he's just worried about Aoife. He'd rather stay here and co-ordinate her protection detail." Molly gave an understanding nod.

"Ah! That makes sense. He loves her." Sherlock hummed in agreement and threw a black knitted cap into the bag. "He shouldn't worry though," she said reflectively, "Mycroft would never let anything happen to her." She gazed into the distance reflecting past events in the house, and then met his eyes. "I'll never forget how he stood in front of me to take the bullet that was intended for me." Sherlock looked steadily back at her and responded softly,

"Neither shall I, Molly." She smiled at that and then began to giggle.

"Speaking of Mycroft, just how much trouble do you think he's in with Aoife?" Sherlock smirked and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at her.

"Oh, not as much as you might think, Molly…" She looked at him in confusion and then the penny dropped and she threw her hand over her mouth as she smothered a laugh. He grinned back at her and then continued with his packing. She watched him affectionately as his hand hovered over the bag, about to drop his magnifying glass into it, then thought better of it and pocketed it. She thought about him going off on his own, chasing mad murderers yet again, and she wrestled with the worry of it.

Molly sighed almost inaudibly but he heard. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye as she began to chew her bottom lip and fidget with her fingers, which had suddenly become of enormous interest to her. He strode over to the window to draw the curtains and then paused suddenly, narrowing his eyes in concentration. Something out at sea had caught his eye. He pulled out his phone and texted his brother and then turned to see Molly feigning normality and smiling at him.

He smiled back at her and then moved to sit up opposite her, cross-legged, on their large bed. She looked enquiringly at him; her bottom lip between her teeth once again. Sherlock poked at her shin with his toe. She rolled her eyes and smothered a smile, so he poked her again. She set her lips mutinously and shifted her foot to toe him back, but he gripped her ankles with a grin and tugged her down the bed. Molly flopped down on her back and he crawled on top of her and began to tickle her just over her hip. She squealed and wriggled to escape him. "Stop Sherlock," she gasped out, giggling despite herself; so he did, and caressed her face gently instead. He ran the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip, and she cupped his head lovingly in her palms.

"Come on you," he coaxed, his deep voice reverberating right through her, "out with it." She shifted her hips underneath him and ran her thumbs over his cheekbones. She smiled ironically and said, "you already know, Sherlock."

"Tell me anyway. Say the words." She sighed.

"You won't be angry with me?"

"No Molly, of course not. Go on. Spit it out," he coaxed her gently.

"I'm worried you're going to get hurt and I wish Michael was going with you too, and I know I promised you I wouldn't fret about your job anymore so it's fine. I'm fine," she blurted out and then drew an anxious breath.

"It's very understandable for you to be a little worried, Molly. I will be careful. Really though, this is just a reconnaissance mission. I'm not expecting it to be dangerous." She smiled in relief and planted soft kisses on his earnest face.

"Ok. You go on down to Michael. I'm just going to relax here, maybe watch the telly. Come say goodbye before you go?" Sherlock nodded, grabbed his bag and made to leave. He paused at the door and looking back around, he said firmly, "leave those curtains drawn Molly, even during the day, and please, promise me you won't leave the house without Mycroft knowing. Actually, do everything he says; I'm sorry, I know how tedious that all is."

"I thought you said you were not expecting it to be dangerous?"

"I said I'm not expecting Kerry to be dangerous." She looked gravely at him.

"Alright Sherlock; I promise." He smiled swiftly and turned to leave, yet still he hesitated. Molly gazed at him, and her heart filled, and she murmured softly to him, "I know my darling, and I love you too." Sherlock gave her a long warm smile and went back down the stairs to find his brother and Michael.

As Mycroft re-buttoned his shirt, his phone vibrated with a text from Sherlock. He read it, turned out the bedroom lights and strode over to the window. He moved the curtain very slightly to look out for brief second and then dropped it back in place.

"Aoife," he said, "how far away are the coastguards?" Aoife's features set and she picked up her phone. She had a brief conversation and was put on hold.

"How far out, and how large a vessel?" she asked him.

"Not far enough, my dear; looks like a hundred-foot trawler, and I don't think they're fishing for mackerel. We are under surveillance." Aoife went back to her phone and he listened, frustrated to only hear one side of the conversation. She ended the phone call, looked at him and grinned.

"I can do you one better than just the coastguard. Our brand spanking new Navy vessel, the 'LE Samuel Beckett' is anchored in Wicklow. They're on their way. They'll accompany the Garda Marine Unit, scare the shit out of the bastards."

"Tell them to hang back, just put them under surveillance for now. I'd like an idea of the number on board." He smirked at her. "They certainly have state of the art surveillance equipment on 'The Beckett'. She rolled her eyes at him.

"That's hardly a state secret dearest; I believe we even issued a press release describing her capabilities."

"Em, not all of them, Aoife." She spluttered laughing despite herself.

"Give it a rest, 'M'. Come on, let's go spy on the internet activity from that house in Kerry." He squeezed her waist as they headed downstairs.

"Yes dear," he muttered into her ear and she smiled in amusement at him and then took his hand in her own.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Sherlock and Michael finished reviewing the Irish Central Intelligence file on Moriarty Snr, and Sherlock hissed in frustration. "I should have looked at this whole family a long time ago, Michael; we could have initiated tighter surveillance on him; we'd have had much more to go on now." He sighed philosophically, "I always miss something." Michael looked sympathetically at him.

"We weren't to know, Sherlock," he reasoned.

He was about to close the file when he noticed something in the list of properties and he pulled it back for another look. He flicked the page towards Sherlock. "Look here Sherlock, he's named on a lease on a small warehouse in Dingle. You'll pass through the town on your way to his house. It might be worth taking a look. Tell the pilot to land at the Scellig Hotel on the outskirts of Dingle town. They've a helicopter pad there, and, more importantly, Aoife's company own it."

He paused thoughtfully. "Actually, I'll get her to book a room online, ok, and she'll send you the details later; you cannot check in as 'Sherlock Holmes' obviously, you're too well known here now and the word will spread like wildfire. Aoife will sort out a pseudonym for you; she can sort out a car from the hotel for you too."

Sherlock threw him an impressed glance. "That's very good work, Michael." He raised a cocky brow at him, "if you ever get tired of working for the Gardaí, do give me a call." Michael laughed and checked his watch as Mycroft joined them in the kitchen. Sherlock raised an enquiring brow at him and he nodded and said, "we're on it Sherlock."

"You have an evacuation plan?"

"Of course." Sherlock hesitated and his brother's features softened. "I'll take care of her, Sherlock." Sherlock smiled and gently warned, "make sure you do; she's very precious." Mycroft gave an amused laugh.

"That indisputable fact hadn't escaped my notice. Now, brother mine, you're all set. The 'double agent' will meet you in arrivals. Then you make your way to the internal flights. Aoife has sorted out the rest. They'll be waiting for you. Expect the unexpected." Sherlock raised his eyes ruefully.

"I always do. I'm just popping up to say goodbye to Molly. I shan't be a minute, then we'll be off."

He raced up the stairs two at a time and entered their room quietly. The TV was on with a low volume and he smiled at the serene picture Molly presented. She was lying on her side on the bed, fully dressed and fast asleep. He was loath to disturb her but he knew she'd be disappointed if he didn't say goodbye, so he knelt down at the side of the bed and stroked her face gently with his fingertips. Her eyelids flickered open and she smiled when she saw him. She stretched in and gave a contented sigh.

"Are you off then? I fell asleep." He took her hand in his.

"You did, you looked so peaceful that I was reluctant to wake you."

"Oh no, I'm glad you did. I'd hate if you hadn't said goodbye."

He smirked boldly and then stood up and released her hand, saying, "goodbye then," and turned to go.

"Sherlock Holmes! Come back here and kiss me goodbye this instant!" She exclaimed indignantly. He chuckled and swung back around, scooping her up off the bed high in his arms. He sat down and brought her with him, deftly maneuvering her onto his knee. She laughed at his antics and wrapped her arms around his neck. He nuzzled into her cheek and then ran his lips along it, pausing momentarily when he got to her lips.

"If you insist, Molly," he drawled, and then captured her mouth with his in a searing kiss. She reciprocated with all her heart and he hummed appreciatively as they prolonged their kiss. She leaned her forehead against his and smiled as she played with his hair.

"Better?" he enquired mischeviously, and she giggled and nodded in agreement.

"Mm, much better. Now you can go…" He chuckled and moved her off his lap and back on the bed. She curled back up on it langoriously and he feasted his eyes on hers.

"You're a very hard woman to leave, Molly," he told her softly and she beamed at him.

"Then hurry home."

He smiled and kissed her forehead, and then left the room. As he went back down the stairs he mused on her words. She'd said 'hurry home' and it touched his heart because at the moment, technically, she didn't actually have a 'home', and hadn't had for months. Since Sinéad Moriarty had firebombed her flat, she'd been moved to Ireland, then the States and now back to Ireland but she still had no actual home as she had yet to move into 221B. He took out his phone and texted her.

' _You'll have a home very soon Molly_ '

She frowned when she read it, and shook her head in bemusement, and then she replied,

' _I already do, silly. It's wherever you are. You know what they say…'_

His heart swelled and he sent her one more text as he joined Michael in the car.

' _Then I'll be home soon, my darling_.'

He shut his phone and focussed his mind completely on the case. They got to the airport and met the British agent without incident. He said his goodbyes to Michael, who agreed to ring him as soon as he got to New York. Within the hour, Sherlock was in the air and on the way to South West Ireland. He reviewed the particulars of his destination as they hurtled through the sky.

Dingle, he mused, is a picturesque fishing town on the same named peninsula. The town is highly popular with Irish and international tourists alike. Heaving with traditional pubs that showcased Irish music, the town was also a haven of craft shops, cafés and galleries, and it attracted people from all over the world. It was, at it's core, a cultural pulse of Ireland, set in a staggeringly wild and beautiful backdrop of lushly green mountains, white windswept beaches, and steep rocky cliffs; lashed by the Atlantic Ocean. He considered the popularity of the town, and its level of year round nightime festivities, and decided to go to 'visit' the house first, which was on a romote road at the tip of the peninsula. By the time he'd done that, the pubs in the town would be closed and things will have quietened down.

Aoife, meanwhile, was making slow but steady progress with her investigation of the house. She discovered that it was purchased five years earlier, by a company registered in Britain, who also put their name to the demolition and rebuild, so she sent that to Mycroft to investigate. The internet and power connections were more interesting because they were opened by a Mr James Moriarty. He hadn't bothered to change his name because there were so many men with that name in Ireland, she thought, and thousands more in America. She could estimate when the house was occupied since it's rebuild from the internet usage, and it seemed to be only occupied for a few weeks each summer, until this year.

As the Intelligence Unit in Dublin continued to send streams of data of the internet usage from the house, she tensed and her hand froze over the mouse. She paled, and despite herself, she was unable to disguise her shock, because she was looking at a forensic investigation of herself. Every news story, every press release, every single time she was mentioned, he'd viewed it. He'd investigated her homes, her company, her parents, her friends, and more recently, even Sherlock, but not, curiously, her lover. She looked at him, trying to manage her distress, and and his face was set and forbidding. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"If anybody puts my name in a search engine, it triggers an alert with MI5. I guarentee you that he has investigated me too, just not from this internet address."

She covered his hand with her own and gripped it tightly for a moment, until he pulled over his chair and sat beside her, bringing his laptop with him. Her hand trembled as she came upon news reports of her brother's 'accidental death,' and then on to the reports of the raids on the Moriarty empire in Britain and Ireland, culminating in the deaths of two of his adult offspring. On and on it went, and it was thorough; it even listed where she liked to eat and where she shopped. Then it came to her parents and she fought back fear.

"They're safe Aoife, I took care of it earlier." She choked back a sob and held out her arms, grappling for him. He pulled her into him and gave her a hug, but he released her promptly, because his own unease was increasing and they needed to crack on.

"Oh Mycroft, thank you. I never imagined I'd need to."

"It's just a precaution, Aoife. They're not the target here."

"No," she stated, "I am." He nodded but didn't comment any further. He asked her to forward the emails and text messages to him while she continue to scan the internet usage.

"I wish to send them on to MI5, Aoife. Are you giving me clearance to do so?" She barely hesitated.

"Of course I am. Time is of the essence. We'd appreciate your help Mycroft; and that's official."

That was exactly what he wanted to hear and his fingers flew over the keyboard of his laptop. It was a couple of hours later when something caught Mycroft's attention. He tilted his head curiously, sat forward, and opened one of the emails. He'd recognised the email address. He pressed a button on his phone immediately and checked his watch. He'd just summonsed his evacuation team. Then he calmly read the email out to Aoife, as he forewarded it on to London, and to Sherlock.

'Your payment has been received. Expect delivery via 'Irish Mariner 3'. May your purchase have the impact you expect.'

Aoife stared at him in genuine astonishment.

"They'd hardly be that blatent Mycroft, surely to God?"

Mycroft had already got to his feet. His phone rang and he answered without looking at the number. He knew it was Sherlock. He took a firm hold of Aoife's arm, levering her up and out of her chair, as he answered her question loudly enough for Sherlock to hear too.

"It's very clever actually. How many emails are sent with 'your payment has been received…, it would never arouse suspicion." He spoke into his phone. "Hang on Sherlock!" he ordered. "Aoife," he continued calmly, "we have to leave the house now. Get the Navy to board that ship immediately. Tell them there may be missiles on board. Yes, we're moving now, Sherlock, I'm a bit busy. I'll call you when we're out."

Aoife hit a panic button on her desk as Mycroft raced upstairs, crashed through Molly's bedroom door, and called her name urgently. Molly shot upright on the bed, took one look at him and jumped out. She was still dressed. He handed her boots to her and she dragged them on rapidly. She grabbed her phone and her precious photo album from her bedside locker, and moved rapidly to Mycroft. He grabbed her free hand and raced back out of the bedroom door and down the stairs. He was only half way down when he yelled for Aoife. She should have been at the front door by now.

She appeared out of the study with their two laptops under her arm, her phone clasped in her fist, speaking rapidly and urgently into it as the three of them sprinted to the front door. Mycroft dragged it open and a dark coloured, unlit van with blacked out windows, screeched up the drive. Braking sharply at the front door, it spun around to face back out the drive; the side door flying open before it even stopped. Mycroft's men had arrived.

Mycroft held onto Molly's hand, checking that she was safely seated in the van and then pulled Aoife in behind them. The van had already begun to move away from the house. Only when they'd cleared the front of the house and passed through the open gates, did Mycroft release Molly's hand. Aoife's security men came flying behind them in a convoy of three Range Rovers, again unlit, and one car passed them by, swiftly and smoothly, and took the lead.

Aoife was back on her phone before she'd even fastened her seatbelt, and was immediately patched through to the LE Samual Beckett. She was determined to speak to the captain herself. He identified himself and she launched into a rapid rundown of their suspicions. Mycroft checked his watch and smiled in satisfaction; four minutes in total.

He lifted his own phone, then paused and smiled calmly at Molly. Molly burst out laughing. "Never a dull moment with you lot, is there?" and he chuckled back at her.

"Ring Sherlock, Molly. He'll be going out of his mind."

Molly's expression immediately sobered and she dialled Sherlock's number. He answered on the first ring. Mycroft smiled as he heard her calmly reassuring him, and then raised his eyebrows at Aoife as she began to whisper 'sweet nothings' down the phone to him. Aoife spluttered a laugh, and then patted her hip, raising an enquiring eyebrow to him. He nodded at her, silently confirming that they were both armed. He got on his phone, called London, and ordered them to provide satillite back-up to the LE Beckett, should the need arise, and then appraised them of their current situation.

"Where are we headed now Sir?" the MI6 Agent asked him as they cruised towards the motorway. Mycroft glanced at Aoife and she looked determinedly back at him. He sighed and replied,

"Kerry. The Dingle Peninsula, to be precise."


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Sherlock threw his holdall onto the passenger seat of the car that he'd just collected from the concierge of the Scellig Hotel. He was seething at the audaciousness and the sheer recklessness of his quarry's plan to bomb Aoife's house from the sea. It had yet to be confirmed by the Irish Navy but he knew Mycroft was correct. He always was. He could understand the man's desire to kill his friends and brother, but Aoife had domestic and security staff who could also have been 'collateral damage' and Moriarty Snr obviously didn't care a jot about them.

He pulled out of the hotel and followed the road through the town and around Dingle Bay, taking the coast road. As soon as he cleared the small town, the road grew quiet and he made it to the small village nearest to the house in twenty minutes. He parked the car, at the back of the deserted village school carpark out of sight and set out on foot. He took a back road, a 'boreen' in local vernacular, a road so narrow it constituted more of a narrow lane in width, usual used to walk cattle and sheep from field to barn, and deserted at this time of night. The night sky was completely clear and resplendid with stars, glistening brilliantly in the inky blackness of a peninsula unobscured by the pollution of street lighting. It was dark though, with only a crescent moon, but that suited his purposes.

He reached the back of the house in a little over ten minutes, crossing through dewy, deserted fields to approach the rear wall. He smirked in gratitude to the planning authorities who'd disallowed boundary walls over four feet high in sympathy with the low natural hedgerows on most of the rugged peninsula. Sherlock leaned his elbows cheekily on the wall, knowing it was too dark for him to be seen from the house. Aoife was a very useful resource; she'd sent him the final architects' drawings for the property; submitted to Kerry County Council as part of the planning permission process.

From his position he could scan almost the full perimeter of the house. There were lights on in the utility room and the back bedroom. Somebody was definitely home, judging by the sleek new Mercedes in the driveway at the side of the house and the smoke coming from the chimney. In case he was left in any doubt, there was a light on in the living room too. Sherlock sighed in irritation. It was going to be a long night.

He climbed the back wall into the rear garden and hunkered down behind some shrubbery. Aoife was still monitoring the house's phone and internet activity, and so far Moriarty Snr, if that's who was in there, was unaware of their recent evacuation from her house. Sherlock pondered that, and began to wonder about the complete lack of sophistication of this man's plan. The whole thing felt crude; thrown together, and he now believed it to be entirely emotionally based.

This man's son had been cold, calculating, and technologically advanced to such a degree that he could hack MI6 communications. Not his daddy though. He had done very little to hide his internet or mobile usage, so erroneously confident was he about his anonymity. He seemed to have no idea of the level of data available to them on his business, courtesy of the Irish and international security agencies. The man was still smuggling arms on trawlers. He was like a throwback to the last century. Sherlock sighed irritably. It was becoming more obvious that this man had come out of retirement, and that he'd clearly been a long time retired.

His phone vibrated in his pocket with an incoming text. Sherlock smiled when he read it. Michael had arrived in New York. He was going to be very cross, Sherlock thought, because this case was going to be over in a few hours. There'd be no meeting tomorrow night. He knew the plan now, he was certain. Lure the group back to Ireland and to Aoife's highly secure house, draw Sherlock Holmes to America, and let him suffer when he blew the house up with all of his loved ones in it, then somehow, kill him too. The only question left to be answered was who Moriarty Snr hated the most; Aoife or himself.

Sherlock sucked in a breath as something occurred to him. He shot a text to Aoife. He couldn't risk a phone call, knowing his voice would carry in the silence of the night.

 **SH: _Have the Navy boarded the trawler yet?_** She answered immediately.

 **AQ: _Yes. 30 mins ago. 4 men on board. Two 'got wet' but we have them._**

 **SH: _Let me guess, no usage on their mobile phones in days?_**

 **AQ: _How? Never mind. No._**

 **SH: _Get them to check the marine radio, I suspect he has a smaller boat here. That's how they communicate. Trace it._**

 **AQ: _Ok. Hang on and I'll text you back._** It was a long fifteen minutes before she next replied.

 **AQ: _1KM west of you, genius. 'The Orla'_**

 **SH: _You have your uses, Ms Quinn_**

 **AQ: _Ditto. Take care. X_**

Sherlock set off on the short walk to the boat. The country road was eerily quiet, with the exception of a farm dog barking in the far distance. It was late March, and the air was crisp and cold. It reminded him of a different time, on a similar road in another country; another world, just after 'the fall' when he was dead. A world where he was alone and immersed on an arduous mission, without John's loyal and easy friendship, and without Molly. He set his mouth in grim determination. This case would be resolved this night, and he would finally begin his life with her, without any further interruptions from the residual fallout of the original Moriarty case.

He found 'The Orla' easily. At forty feet, she was the largest of the six boats moored at the small jetty. She was sleek and shiny and only a couple of years old. The rest were much smaller and older leisure craft, belonging to local people. It was a rich man's toy and was incongruous in the remote setting. Sherlock boarded the craft from the portside, picked the lock to the cabin easily, and after a cursory but fruitful search, he sat down on the plush leather bench, texted Michael, and waited for this particular game to play out.

In Brooklyn, Michael's mobile pinged with an incoming text message and he grinned happily and showed it to the British agent who was doubling as 'Sherlock'. Sherlock was not prepared to wait until the next night for a few 'hired guns' to show up at the pub. Anyway, it appeared that they would not be making an appearance because they would not be receiving any 'go ahead' from Moriarty Snr. He twinkled at his English compatriot. "Come on then, let's go for a drink in 'Moriarty's'" The Englishman laughed as they hailed a taxi.

Mycroft, Aoife, Molly and their accompanying security detail arrived at the hotel and were greeted politely by the concierge and whisked up to the top floor. The concierge appeared unruffled but Aoife knew she had caused chaos for the poor woman, because they'd needed the entire top floor cleared, and some guests moved to accommodate them all, and with only twenty minutes' advance notice. She took her aside and apologised for the inconvenience.

Mycroft smiled kindly at Molly and taking her gently by the arm, he relieved her of her precious photo album, carrying it for her, and then escorted her and Aoife up to their suite. He explained to Molly that she would have to stay with them in their suite until Sherlock returned, "or he'll have my guts for garters, Molly." She smiled resignedly at him. "I'd prefer that anyway Mycroft, thank you."

They'd barely arrived into the suite when Aoife was informed by Reception that the Gardaí had arrived for her. They were going to escort her to the warehouse. She kissed Mycroft goodbye and headed back downstairs. The local Sergeant had accompanied the two uniformed Gardaí, and they didn't waste any time. Aoife was very well known and she didn't want word to get around that she was in the area before they'd rounded up Moriarty Snr. She strode quickly through the reception area, head down, and climbed into the Garda car. The warehouse was only five minutes away by car, and the small industrial estate containing the units was completely deserted.

The Gardaí pulled up outside the Unit and the Sergeant laughed drolly. "Well, would you look at that? Do you think he's trying to keep people out?" The Unit had three heavy bolts added to the standard locks of the other units. "Can you get through them?" she asked him. He grinned confidently at her. "We came prepared, Ms Quinn. Don't you worry." They got out of the car and he opened the boot. He pulled out a large bolt cutters and they got to work. They made short shrift of the locks and pulled open the wide 'garage style' doors. Aoife used her torch and scanned the inside of the unit. There were two luxury SUV's, with no licence plates, parked just behind the door. "Stolen, I'll warrant," the Sergeant muttered.

As they entered and explored further into the back of the unit, he gasped in dismay. The entire back wall was plastered with photos of Aoife, Michael, Sherlock and a few of Molly, but Aoife was the predominant subject. On one very large 12x16 inch shot of her leaving her company headquarters, Moriarty Snr had drawn a crosshair around her head. Aoife tutted dismissively and reassured the Sergeant. "These are all published photo's. He got them from the internet. He never even had me, or my friends under surveillance." She looked at him candidly. "It's all a bit pathetic, actually." The Sergeant shook his head seriously at her.

"No, Ms Quinn, it would be, except for the missiles he had aimed at your house."

He pointed over to two wooden caskets, and the uniformed men immediately followed his unspoken command and forced the lids open with a crowbar. They were filled with straw, but a careful and cursory root around produced several handguns and a two AK 47's. He stopped them from proceeding any further and called in forensics. Then he approached her soberly. "Right, Ms Quinn. I'm dropping you back to the hotel and going out west to bring this character in for questioning, and before you protest, you are absolutely not coming with me. You are a target and you need to be protected."

"That's grand," she agreed calmly, "but do not go near that house before calling for armed back up though, and you'll leave these men here to preserve the scene?" He looked at her suspiciously. She was taking it too well.

"Look, Ms Quinn, is there something you're not telling me?" She looked speculatively at him, thinking how shrewd he was. She didn't want to tell him about Sherlock, or the boat, just yet though, because she wanted to give Sherlock enough time to do what Sherlock did best. She decided to delay things just a little bit.

"There is Sergeant. May we go back to the hotel and discuss it there though?" she asked politely, gesturing pointedly at the two Garda officers. He sighed heavily and frowned at her.

"We can, I suppose, so long as you're not trying to delay me, Ms Quinn!"

"Not at all Sergeant," she replied, "it's just that this is a highly sensitive situation, with an international dimension, so discretion is paramount."

"No, Ms Quinn," he replied sternly, "it's not. Taking that fella into custody immediately is paramount. The rest of that stuff is your area, and quite frankly, not my problem." She inhaled deeply, nodded placating at him and gestured to the car.

"Then let's go, Sergeant." They got into the Garda car and made the short journey back to the hotel in relative silence. The Sergeant realised something as they pulled up in front of the front door and hissed in irritation.

"Where is he, Ms Quinn?" She looked back innocently at him.

"Where is who?"

"You know who! That private detective, Sherlock Holmes. Is he upstairs with your partner, or has he gone out to that house?" The jig was up and she knew it.

"He's a consulting detective, Sergeant. He consults for Scotland Yard." The Sergeant's colour was raised now and his temper flared.

"Does this look like bleedin London to you Ms Quinn? We have a potentially lethal situation here that should have been left for the authorities to deal with, and not a British private detective with absolutely no jurisdiction here! You of all people? What the hell were you thinking? I don't give a shit who you are, I've a good mind to charge you with obstruction of justice!" Aoife blanched and stared at him in dismay.

"Sergeant Doyle, that's enough! I do understand your position but you do not have all the facts. I hired Sherlock Holmes to investigate the murder of my brother. You know that. 'Jurisdiction' is not an issue here because he is acting on my behest and in a completely private capacity. I'll also remind you that his picture is back there on that wall too, along with his girlfriends." She took a deep breath and softened her voice. "He's a very capable man, Sergeant, and yes, I agree; considering what we've just discovered in that warehouse unit, he will be needing backup imminently. If they're not at the house, you need to know that Sherlock's also looking particularly at a boat, 'The Orla,' moored out at Beal Bán jetty." The Sergeant watched her earnest expression as she spoke and was thoughtful for a long minute.

"Alright then," he relented, and spoke more gently to her. "I've seen the boat, and look, I do get it, Ms Quinn. I know about your loss and I also know about your friend's reputation, and therefore I assume he's not out there getting himself killed."

He laughed teasingly at her then. "I also know enough about your boyfriend too, so I'm guessing that he'll be covering his brother's back?" He looked at her in horror suddenly, and ran his hands through his hair in agitation.

"Jesus! Is my peninsula crawling with the British Secret Service?" Aoife chewed her upper lip and looked at her lap guiltily. Then she glanced up at him with a devilish twinkle in her eye.

"Well," she replied, "Moriarty Snr did just try to kill the head of the British Intelligence Services, Sergeant." The Sergeant dropped his head in his hands and then, to her surprise, he slowly began to laugh. She looked questioningly at him and he shook his head in mirth, before he replied,

"I'm beginning to think the level of intelligence in that Moriarty clan was seriously overrated!" Aoife's hand flew to her mouth and she burst out laughing. Her phone vibrated with a text from Mycroft.

 ** _'Would you like me to point a spotlight on the car there, dearest?'_**

Aoife spluttered a laugh again and showed the Sergeant, who smirked back at her. He got out of the car and walked around to open the door for her, escorting her back into the hotel and right up to her hotel room door. Aoife rolled her eyes but let him, because it was his job. Mycroft opened the door and thanked him, glaring at her as she entered, and the Sergeant raced off to organise the Armed Response Unit to storm the house on the peninsula.

Mycroft folded his arms across his chest and continued to glare at her. and she bit back a smile. Molly discreetly brought the room service menu up to her face, trying to hide her own smirk as Mycroft's head swung between the two of them incredulously.

"I fail to see what's so funny about you sitting out there in the open with an unarmed Garda Sergeant, Aoife Quinn!" She looked steadily at him.

"I'm armed Mycroft. You know that.," she walked over to him and stroked his arm placating, "I'm sorry I worried you, but I had to smooth his very ruffled feathers to prevent him from arresting Sherlock, and maybe even me…" He raised his eyes but the beginnings of a smile hovered on his lips.

"And God knows you do that so well, Aoife." He looked pointedly at her hand on his shoulder.

Molly and Aoife giggled loudly, and he finally relaxed and pulled her in for a long hug. Dropping a loving kiss on his cheek, she sat down and began to fill them both in on what they'd discovered and what the Sergeant was planning. Mycroft briefed Aoife too, on recent events in New York, where his agent and Michael had linked up with the FBI and were currently raiding the pub in Brooklyn and Moriartys' two homes in the city.

Out on the far western tip of the peninsula, an old man pulled on his coat and left his house to drive the short journey to the jetty. He parked his car, turning out the lights and engine, and the silence of the countryside descended again, broken only by the gentle lapping of the seawater off the side of the boats and pier wall. He stepped out of his car and lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag and then hacked and coughed, and muttering curses, he climbed on to his boat.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Moriarty had barely reached the top of the deck before his wheezing and coughing started again. The rasping sound carried far in the still of the night. He leaned heavily on the cabin door handle to catch his breath and then fumbled with the key in the lock. The key scratched and dragged painfully before engaging and finally, turning open. Sherlock continued to sit very still and wait him out. Eventually the door swung open. A dark silhouetted figure of a man in a long coat, stood centred in the doorframe. He took a long drag of his cigarette before switching on the light. Exhaling deeply, he coughed again and then trudged slowly forward into the cabin.

Incredibly, as he walked unsteadily to the Captain's seat, he failed to notice Sherlock Holmes sitting quietly on the bench behind the open door. He took another drag of his cigarette, followed by the inevitable hacking cough. He leaned heavily on the Captain's chair at the helm, before he dragged himself up into it and stretched his hand up to pick up the radio receiver. His hand froze mid-air as a deep baritone voice broke into the silence of the night.

"You'll find that there's nobody at the other end of that; well there is, but I doubt you wish to speak to the Captain of 'The Samuel Beckett', do you, Jim?"

The receiver dropped from the old man's hand and clattered off the dashboard, before swinging by its spiral cord like a dysfunctional pendulum. He spun around in shock and then spluttered out a long slew of expletives until, gradually, he ran out of steam. He glared in red-faced fury at Sherlock, sitting back so nonchalantly, legs askew and arms crossed on his chest.

"You, ya fucker, you're supposed to be in New York!" he spat out at him. Sherlock emitted a small, bored sigh.

"So are you Jim, as it happens, and yet, here we both are."

"Smart little shit, aren't you?" Sherlock laughed.

"You're only getting that now?"

He rolled his eyes as he watched the elderly man grapple under the seat of his chair to retrieve the revolver he had discovered taped underneath it earlier. He drew it lazily out of his coat pocket.

"Looking for this?"

The old man hissed in frustration.

"I suppose that bitch's house is still intact too?" Sherlock looked disparagingly at him; the question was not worth answering.

"You really should have stayed in retirement, Jim. I mean, what was the point of all this?"

The man looked contemptuously back at him.

"And they call you a genius? What the fuck to you think the point was?

Sherlock sat back in his seat and sighed loudly.

"I suppose you're going to tell me you were avenging your family? The same family you completely abandoned, and the brother you recently smothered?"

"That's none of your business. They were still my children; you and your brother killed them. Aoife Quinn helped you to do it, and then covered it up. I couldn't let that go; now could I?"

Sherlock tutted in irritation.

"Aoife and I did not start this Jim. Your son the psychopath did, decades ago, when he pushed Aoife's brother over that cliff just up the bloody road from here. You know that. She's only done exactly as you are claiming to be doing now; seek retribution for her brother's murder."

"That was just one life, Holmes. I've lost three children in as many years!"

Sherlock responded with cold contempt.

"How many lives have you taken Jim, hmm? Directly and indirectly? Do you even know? How many mothers and fathers have you left desolate? You chose a path of murder and mayhem over your 'family' decades ago. Just tonight you tried to blow up a house without a clue of how many people were in your line of fire; fourteen men and women, as it happens, including my family, so if you're looking for sympathy from me or, more importantly the Gardaí; they're on their way, by the way; you are really wasting your breath." He stopped then and looked at him knowingly.

"And we both know what a bad idea that is don't we? How long have you got?"

The old man shook his head, refusing to answer. He was quiet for a long while. Then in the distance, the sound of police sirens broke the peace of the night. Just for a minute, Jim Moriarty Snr panicked. He knew he couldn't take on Sherlock Holmes, because he was well aware of his legendary fighting skills, and he also knew that he was armed. Then, resignation of his fate settled over his features. Cold, watery blue eyes looked calmly at Sherlock.

"Shoot me. You owe me that at least." Sherlock shook his head.

"Not a chance. The killing stops tonight; right here, in the place where it all began."

Moriarty studied him and knew he meant it, and could not be persuaded to change his mind.

"Then empty that chamber and give me the gun." Sherlock tilted his head as he considered the request.

"Suicide by cop?"

The old man swallowed and nodded. The sirens were getting louder and closer. He was running out of time. Sherlock shook his head again.

"I'd like to help you, actually, and in different circumstances, I would have happily obliged, but not tonight, I'm afraid; not in Ireland."

Moriarty analysed his words and hissed out bitterly.

"Because of Aoife Quinn. You're protecting her reputation!" Sherlock smirked at him.

"That's right Jim, you see, she's family now and there is nothing I wouldn't do to protect my family. Your son knew that much."

Outside, the Garda cars could be heard screeching to a halt on the narrow granite pier. Sherlock stood and gestured to the door.

"After you."

The old man sighed in resignation and pulled out his box of cigarettes.

"Do you mind?" he enquired.

"Not at all, but not in here, out on the deck, least we encounter a trigger happy young Garda." He smirked in appreciation at him. "Nice try though." The old man's lips curled in a wry smile.

"Sure it was worth a try."

He walked ahead of Sherlock out of the door and was immediately blinded by the Garda spotlights, but he didn't need to see to know that there were guns pointing at him. The Garda Sergeant shouted at them to both put their hands behind their heads and get down on their knees. Sherlock immediately complied, but Moriarty did not. He waved his cigarette in the air and backed slowly up to the far rail, ignoring all directions from the Gardaí not to move.

"Just finishing me smoke, lads," he shouted provocatively, while groping furtively behind himelf for the rail. Sherlock watched him and shouted a warning.

"Don't, Jim!"

His call was in vain. Moriarty back-flipped, rather elegantly, Sherlock thought, over the rail, splashing into the icy black sea. The Gardaí rushed the boat and peered over the side where Moriarty had vanished. They searched the water frantically with their torches, shouting for more light, but there was no sign of the man. He had completely disappeared into the dark water.

The Sergeant placed a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You can get up now, Mr Holmes." Sherlock stood and casually brushed off his jacket, before addressing him.

"You won't find him tonight. The tide is going out and the current is strong. I expect he'll wash up on the rocks in the morning." The Sergeant winced sympathetically.

"I reckon you're right, Mr Holmes. That water is freezing. He'll die of hypothermia if he doesn't drown first." He looked coolly at Sherlock. "Sure you can tell me all about it down at the station."

Sherlock groaned internally. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He was tired and hungry. He just wanted to go back to that hotel, have something to eat, and then cuddle up in a warm bed with Molly. He nodded at him though, resigned to his fate, and asked the Sergeant if they could drive the hotel's car back, rather than leave it behind the school. The Sergeant nodded amenably and they both disembarked from the boat.

Back in the hotel, Mycroft glanced over at his partner as she paced the room, phone stuck to her ear, deep in conversation with the Intelligence Unit in Dublin. She was trying to arrange an immediate coastguard search of the sea around the peninsula, but it did not appear to be going well. The emergency services were refusing to deploy lifeboats until first light, due to the notoriously treacherous Atlantic currents around the rocky headland. Privately, Mycroft happened to agree wholeheartedly with them. He twirled his finger in the air and she nodded at him in understanding, and then spoke rapidly back into her phone. They could send out helicopters to search the coast. It was a compromise, at least.

Sherlock rang him then and filled him in on the way back into the town.

"Is it over, Sherlock?" he enquired tiredly, when Sherlock had completed his report. Sherlock sighed and answered him as best he could.

"Probably, considering his death wish, but keep Molly with you there until I get back please, Mycroft. I won't be fully satisfied until they find his body."

"Of course. We will all be here. Michael has been rather successful in New York too. Very fruitful. The FBI is rather pleased with what they have found. They will be kept quite busy making arrests over the next few days. Well done." Sherlock smiled and replied,

"Ditto, Mycroft. How's Aoife?" Mycroft eyed her across the room, her fingers gripping her mobile so tightly her knuckles blanched.

"Yes, Sherlock. That should be fine by tomorrow,"

Sherlock laughed and agreed with him reassuringly.

"She'll be absolutely fine now, Mycroft. We all will." He considered Aoife's situation for a second and then told his brother his thoughts.

"She has never returned to this place since Oisín's death Mycroft; not even to buy that hotel; not until today. Let's stay on here for a couple of days with her, and Mykie, maybe you should engage the services of a Priest, and hold some type of memorial? Wait for Michael's return though; I know he would wish to attend." Mycroft sucked in a surprised breath. He was profoundly touched by his brother's thoughtfulness.

"Maybe you really are the smart one after-all, Sherlock," he said quietly, before terminating the call.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

It was half past four in the morning by the time Sergeant Doyle was satisfied with Sherlock's statement, and permitted him to leave, and almost five by the time he rapped gently on the door of the hotel suite. Mycroft opened it, still fully dressed, but shirtsleeves rolled up as a concession to the hour. He held an elegant finger to his lips, gesturing to the two women fast asleep on the two separate double beds. Sherlock scanned the slumbering women and shook his head in wonderment at his brother. "How the hell did we two ever get this lucky, Mycroft?" he whispered. His brother's eyes flickered over Aoife's features and he shook his head at Sherlock.

"I have absolutely no idea." The two brothers grinned happily at each other.

Sherlock turned and smiled in affection at the still fully dressed Molly. He knew it was a combination of her shyness in front of Mycroft, and her wanting to await his return so they could retire to their own suite, that had prevented her from sleeping more comfortably, in just her t-shirt. He patted his brother gently on the back in thanks, and scooped down at the side of Molly's bed, kissing her on the cheek, and then, as she began to awaken, pressing a soft kiss on her lips.

Molly's long brown eyelashes flickered open and her eyes lit up with a smile at the sight of him. She reached up and caressed his beloved face. "Hello, you," she whispered softly, and with such throaty tenderness that he felt compelled to kiss her quickly again.

"Hello, my love," he responded quietly, smiling broadly at her, "ready to change rooms now?"

She stretched and nodded. He took her elbow and helped her out of the bed. Molly held onto his arm to steady herself while she swiftly pulled on her boots. Then she took his hand in hers and smiled warmly at Mycroft. Tugging Sherlock along with her, she crossed the room to where he was sitting in a deep armchair and observing them fondly. She leaned down and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you for being the most gallant of bodyguards, Mycroft." He chuckled quietly.

"You are very welcome, Molly. Perhaps we can all catch up over a late breakfast later in the morning?"

That agreed, they said their goodbyes and Sherlock wrapped a long arm across her shoulders as they walked the short distance to their own room.

"I can't wait until breakfast Molly;" he told her, "I'm starving. I've ordered fish and chips." Molly stifled a delighted shriek and he laughed and pulled her in tighter.

"Oh Sherlock! It's really over then?"

"Yes Molly. Although we'll be here for another couple of days, if that's ok?"

"Of course it is. Mycroft told me about your lovely idea for Aoife," she replied as he closed and locked the door of their room, "it was so thoughtful of you, and let me tell you something, Mister Holmes, you are so 'on a promise'!"

Sherlock chuckled deeply and swung her up in his arms for a kiss and a hug.

"I'll hold you to that Dr Hooper, but first, food and sleep. After that, you can have your wicked way with me…"

Molly giggled happily and hugged him tightly.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" he said as he nuzzled into her ear.

"I've no spare clothes."

Sherlock snorted. It was one of the things he loved about her, how randomly her thoughts could flow sometimes.

"That's alright Molly, you won't need any." Molly sniggered and slapped him lightly.

"Oh hush, you." She wriggled to get him to release her but he just held her more tightly.

"Where are you going, Hooper?" he complained petulantly. She looked at him, scrutinising his features carefully.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?

He sighed and released her, averting his eyes, but she placed a gentle hand on his face and tilted his head gently to look at him. "What is it darling, tell me?" He shook his head dismissively, and then relented, and shucking off his jacket and shoes, he took her hand and tugged her with him over to the couch. He lay back on it and opened his arms for her. She joined him immediately and he brought her down to lie on his chest and into his firm embrace.

"It's nothing serious Molly, really. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I've missed you; Christ! it feels like I've been missing you for months. We've only had snatched days together, days so short that they felt like mere moments, and then we're bloody separated or interrupted again. That stops now, because I'm heart sick of it. You and I are staying here for a few days; it's a stunning place, by the way; wait until you see it in daylight, and then we are returning to Aoife's house; alone, where we are going into lockdown for weeks, and I swear to a God, if one more Moriarty pops out of the woodwork, I'm going to tell Mycroft to just shoot them and be done with it. I mean it Molly!" he finished indignantly, and then took in a much needed deep breath.

Molly began to tremble in his arms and he looked down at her in alarm, before realising she was shaking with laughter. He swatted her bum lightly. "Molly Hooper, are you laughing at me?" Her shoulders shook even harder as she attempted to shake her head in denial. He bit back a grin and pretended to be insulted, but she saw through him, and peered up at his face; tears of laughter flooding her eyes.

"Oh my God Sherlock! '…just shoot them and be done with it.' Oh, I shouldn't laugh," she spluttered guiltily, and then she erupted again. Slowly, he began to chuckle along with her, and before long they were both gripping each other and laughing hard, until a member of staff knocking on their door and announcing room service interrupted them. Sherlock wiped his eyes, and plonked an enthusiastic kiss on her nose before manoeuvring her gently away from him to get up.

"You see how good you are for me, Molly? You are a tonic!" he declared as he checked through the spy-hole in the door before letting the staff member in with his dinner tray. He tipped the waiter and then closed the door, immediately popping a piping hot chunky chip into his mouth. "Oh my God, Molly, you have got to taste these, they're fantastic!" He carried his plate over with him, without bothering with cutlery, and re-joining her on the couch, he placed it on the floor under his elbow. He decided he was going to feed her as well and Molly happily indulged him. She'd missed him, and worried about him, and wanted nothing more than to be with him now. She lay back down against his chest and tasted the chip he'd popped playfully into her mouth, and then moaned softly. Sherlock froze momentarily and then chuckled again.

"That's a sound I don't normally associate with you eating, Molly…" Molly giggled and leaned up on her elbow to peer up at him.

"Never mind that you, give's another chip!"

He smiled and slid down lower on the couch, nudging her gently to align her hips with his and then complied with her demand, dropping another one into her mouth. He nuzzled into her ear and murmured suggestively as she ate,

"You know what effect 'bossy Molly' has on me, Dr Hooper; you're being very naughty. I told you I was tired."

Molly sniggered and nibbled into his neck, knowing full well the effect that particular action had on him too. She ran her hand in a long caress down his side, from his shoulder to his hip bone, and then swiftly swiped a chip from his plate. Sherlock spluttered out a laugh, have amused and half indignant.

"Molly Hooper! Distraction tactics? I never knew you had it in you…" Molly licked her lips with a bold grin.

"Yeah you did," she replied impishly, swallowing her chip, and he laughed again. He reached a long hand down to the plate for another chip and held it tantalisingly over her lips. She leaned forward slightly to claim it. Sherlock snatched it away at the last second and popped it into his own mouth. Molly gasped indignantly and then pealed with laughter, making him laugh again. Sherlock reached down again and broke off a piece of the battered cod and sampled it. Then he groaned too.

"Oh my God, seriously Molly, wait until you taste this; the fish was just caught this morning." He broke off another piece and brought it to her lips. "I couldn't be bothered with cutlery, Molly, I'm too comfortable and too tired. Do you mind my fingers?" Molly looked up at him from under her lashes and smirked boldly.

"Is that even a serious question?" she murmured throatily. She grasped his hand by the wrist and then slipped both the morsel of fish and his fingers into her mouth, sucking the fish from his fingers, swallowing it, and then licked his fingers clean. Sherlock growled, deep and low, and kissed her mouth hard.

"That's it, Molly. I'm throwing out all the cutlery in Baker Street…" She sniggered again and then stretched her two arms around his neck, and rested her forehead against his for a long moment. She let out a long deep sigh of contentment and nuzzled into his neck again.

"I love this Sherlock," she murmured, "being with you. You make me so happy, and I love you so much." He held her tighter and caressed her head, stroking her hair.

"I know Molly; I love you too. I love being with you." He laughed a little ruefully. "That's why I got a little cross. We need time together, you and I, bonding time." Molly looked down at their two bodies, pressed so closely together, then grinned and raised an amused brow.

"I'm not sure we could get much closer than this." He smirked and winked boldly at her.

"Oh, we really could, you know."

He kissed her smiling mouth again, then stretched and gave a long yawn.

"I shall conduct a practical demonstration to prove it in the morning, rest assured, but for now, Molly mine, I need sleep," he said.

He levered her up and stood up, picked the plate up off the floor and carried it over to the tray. He broke off another large piece of fish and ate it and then sighed, and picked up the knife and fork.

"Nope, I'm going to have to finish this."

He gestured his fork at her enquiringly, and she smiled and told him to finish it himself. She began the ritual of getting ready for bed, humming happily to herself. They'd left the house in such a hurry that she had no change of clothes, no wallet, not even a spare set of underwear. She frowned and stopped humming.

Sherlock read her as he began to undress himself. "I have my cards with me, Molly, we can go shopping for clothes for you in the morning in the town." She looked at him in relief.

"Oh good, Sherlock, I can fix you up later." He shook his head disapprovingly,

"Molly, we've discussed this before, my money is your money." He laughed as he took his shirt off. "My shirt is your shirt," he continued, as he handed it over to her and she laughingly accepted it.

"Thank you," she said softly, "when I was first in America, I wore your Irish rugby shirt every night, you remember, the one Michael gave you, until after about a week; I couldn't get your scent from it any longer." She looked stricken for a moment. "That was not a good night," she told him quietly. Sherlock grimaced and then held her face tenderly in his hands.

"I left the beautiful dress you wore that last night lying on our bed for weeks too, Molly. That awful time is all over now though."

He pulled off her sweater and t-shirt and reached tenderly behind her back to open her bra, and removed it too. He helped her into his shirt, but only buttoned it to just over her naval, making her giggle. They finished preparations quickly and clambered into bed; Sherlock sighing contentedly, with the comfort of the warm bed, and the comfort of the amazing woman tucked up in his arms. Five minutes later they were both fast asleep.

Molly woke first and gazed into the handsome, slumbering face of the man she loved more than life itself. She wrapped her arm around his chest and snuggled into his side. A minute later Sherlock ran his hand down her back to grip her pert backside and pull her tight against his fully aroused body. Molly gasped in surprise. His large hands massaged her firm behind and a moan of appreciation escaped from her lips.

"Time for that practical demonstration, Molly," he asserted, "a promise is a promise," before kissing her senseless. He broke contact with her only to pull his shirt over her head and yank down her knickers, along with his pyjama bottoms, and tossing them aside. He pulled her firmly back into his arms and then he couldn't stop touching her, his hands caressing from her pert breasts, all the way down to her thighs, and back up again.

He licked along her pulse point in her neck, feeling his own heart skip a beat as he measured how fast hers was pounding. He smiled smugly, relishing the effect he had on her, and brought his mouth down determinedly to her breasts. She arched her back as he sucked in a tightened nipple and gripped his hair with her fingers. He nipped firmly at the swollen bud and then laved over it with his tongue, and she moaned from deep in her throat. He switched to the other side, giving it equal treatment, before continuing his exploration of her body. He reached her naval and licked into it, before running a smooth tongue over the satin skin beneath it.

"You're so beautiful, Molly. I love the taste of your skin."

Molly's eyes were tight shut and she was beyond a verbal response. She gripped his hair more tightly and he growled in arousal, unable to think about anything but her, and how much he wanted to hear her climax, and how much he wanted to sink deeply inside her. He reached her sweet centre and flicked his tongue over the swollen pink flesh, the familiar taste and scent of her making his erection pulse painfully in reaction. He kissed and licked into her deeply, until she was writhing underneath him and calling out his name, begging him for more, for release. He slipped his fingers inside her, finding she was more than ready for him, and then moved back up her body, kissing her mouth hungrily.

Molly ran her hands all over the taut muscles of his back, and wriggled her hips tight up to his to bring him closer. "Please, Sherlock, please. Now!" He gripped her thigh hard and spread her legs even further apart, and then rubbed his member along her folds. He almost lost all control at the wet heat of her, and he sucked in a rapid breath to steady himself, before thrusting deep inside her in one swift movement. Molly cried out his name as he filled her with his length. He paused for a long moment, struggling to get himself back under control, so determined was he to pleasure her first. Molly jerked her hips up to him demandingly, and so he didn't wait any longer. He began to thrust hard, in and out of her as her gripped her hips tightly in his hands.

His tongue in her mouth mimicked his lovemaking and she groaned out loud with the intensity of her pleasure. Sherlock began to drive into her even harder, and increased the pace, and he felt her body tense under his for a long moment as she reached her high, before she threw her head back in ecstasy, crying out his name as her body convulsed around him. She clenched him tightly, deep within herself, and Sherlock reached the panicle of pleasure, and then he felt his own release shoot deep inside her body, like lightning shooting though him. It was, he thought, the most intense orgasm he'd ever experienced in his life, just as he knew it was for her. He slumped down against her sweat slickened body, and then, concerned he was crushing her, he turned their bodies so she was lying on top of him, still connected to him in the most intimate of ways. He lay silently with her until their breathing slowed down, before he turned her face up to his and kissed her again.

"See Molly, I told you we could be closer. That was a very, very, satisfying experiment in lovemaking."

Molly giggled and moved away slightly, letting him slip out, and then wrapped herself around him again, sighing happily.

"Please feel free to repeat that experiment at any time Sherlock. Bloody hell, that was amazing. You're amazing."

He hummed proudly at her and grinningly told her that she brought out the best in him. She smiled as she kissed him.

"Well, my love, we certainly have chemistry."

They lay happily in each other's arms, spending a leisurely hour together before washing and dressing, and meeting Aoife and Mycroft for breakfast.

Aoife was happy and relaxed, cuddled up to Mycroft in the restaurant booth, and relaying animatedly the success of the FBI raids in New York. Her phone rang and she took the call at the table, and her features relaxed even further as she listened to the voice at the other end informing her that Jim Moriarty's body had washed up on the rocks in Dunquin, at the furthest tip of the peninsula, and was being transported to the mortuary in Dingle hospital.

Mycroft smiled gently at her. "We'll take DNA from the body, of course, but I think it's a foregone conclusion that it is him, my dear." She nodded in agreement.

"So do I." She reached across and covered Sherlock's hand on the table. "Thank you, Sherlock," she said earnestly, and he smiled affectionately at her.

"No problem, but I'm warning all of you, stay out of trouble for the next month…" and they all laughed in response. Aoife's phone buzzed again with a text. She read it and broke into a broad grin, focussing on Sherlock.

"It's Michael. He's flying into Shannon, he'll be here after lunch, and he says to tell Sherlock he's bringing his violin. He wants a rematch!" Sherlock threw back his head and laughed heartily.

"Tell him he's on, Aoife."


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

After breakfast, Sherlock and Molly wandered down into the town to purchase some clothing for her. They discovered a large leisurewear clothing store on the seafront. Although it mainly catered for outerwear on the frequently wet and windy peninsula jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean, they also had a good selection of indoor clothing and underwear too; much to Molly's relief. Sherlock observed Molly with enraptured amusement as she flitted excitedly from one rack to the next, making her selections. She'd hold something up against herself and ask him his opinion, but he'd just smile noncommittedly at her, and so she'd roll her eyes and continue her search. He spotted a burnt- orange zippered fitted top and picked out one in her size, holding it open for her.

"I love this colour on you Molly; try it on?" She smiled at him and slipped her arms through the sleeves. He 'accidently' stroked her jawline as she turned to face him, and just like that, her pulse accelerated and a soft blush appeared on her cheeks. Sherlock smirked smugly, and gripping the front panels of the garment, he slowly tugged her closer to him. He locked his eyes on her as he slowly closed the zipper, then glanced deliberately and lingeringly at her lips, before raising his eyes again to hers. Molly's colour heightened and she licked her lips involuntarily, eliciting a low growl from Sherlock, as he bent his head to claim them. Molly sank into his kiss, gripping the lapels of his coat tightly. He nibbled coaxingly on her bottom lip, and she moaned quietly and opened her mouth for him to explore, which he did thoroughly, only stopping because of a loud wolf-whistle from a group of schoolboys and the resulting muffled giggle from Molly.

He lifted his head and studied her face, stroking her now scarlet cheeks. "I like this colour on you too, Dr Hooper, he drawled, and then released her and stood back to examine her outfit. He ran his hands behind her neck and lifted her long silky hair out from behind the jacket. Smiling broadly, he encased her in his arms again and turned her gently to face the floor length shop mirror, resting his hands on her slim hips. She placed her hands over his, entwining their fingers, swinging their arms out wide to examine the top. She nodded her approval shyly at his reflection in the mirror.

"Good," he told her, "I like it too, we'll add it to the bundle."

Gazing at him through the reflecting glass, Molly swallowed a lump in her throat, her big doe eyes brimming and glistening with the extent of her emotions. Sherlock leaned his arms and shoulders back around her, taking her arms with him in his hands so she was effectively embracing herself with his arms and hers. Tilting his head down to her ear, he nibbled at it and then kissed her racing pulse point.

"Christ, Molly," he groaned quietly into her ear, "what are you doing to me? I cannot keep my hands off you." She turned her face into his neck.

"Then, don't," she whispered in response. He grinned at her as he released her.

"It's a bit of a nuisance Molly, but I believe Ireland has similar 'public decency' laws to the UK," he said comically, as he tugged her over to the till, with a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

"You obviously haven't been to Temple Bar after closing time, Sir," the salesman deadpanned, as he rang up their purchases. Sherlock looked at him for a split second and then laughed heartily and wrapped his arm around Molly again as he passed over his card. He turned and looked earnestly at her.

"I really like it here, Molly."

She looked quizzically at him.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I'd never leave London permanently, but what would you think of us buying a house here somewhere in the countryside, perhaps close to Aoife's house? We'd have to put up with Mycroft, but, on the plus side, Michael lives in Wicklow too."

Molly rolled her eyes and tapped him gently in the chest. "Oh give over, you love Mycroft, and you know it. As for a house…," she paused in thought, and her whole face lit up with happiness, "Oh my God, Sherlock!" he grinned back at her.

"That's settled then. I'll get right on it, maybe consult with Aoife." As he took their bagged purchases from the smiling salesman, the man looked at the credit card and looked up excitedly.

"Oh, you're Sherlock Holmes! I thought I recognised you. Do you have your violin with you?" Sherlock looked quizzically at him. It was highly unusual for someone to refer to his musical prowess and not his detective work. He scanned the younger man, who appeared a little enamoured with him, truth be told.

"Bodhrán?" he said, referring to the ancient Irish hand held drum, so intrinsic to the Celtic musical sound. The young assistant's eyes widened in surprise and then he nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes Sir, actually, there's a session on in O'Flaherty's Pub this evening from eight, if you'd both like to come? It's an open mike and anything goes." Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "That sounds delightful. Thank you, we'll be there, and we'll bring our friends too. Good day," he called over his shoulder, taking Molly's hand in one of his and hauling all of her shopping bags in the other as he held the door of the shop open with his foot for two ladies entering, his bold eyes glinted down at her.

"Now Molly, where were we? Ah yes, I was discussing getting you back to the hotel and ravishing you..."

Molly gasped in mortification as two elderly women stared at him and then at her, with startled eyes, and then one of them peeled with laughter.

"Get him back to that hotel quick, girl, or we'll have to sort him out for you!"

Molly blushed and then snorted laughing as he gripped her hand tighter.

"Leave it with me, ladies!" She replied. She fancied she saw a faint blush across his cheeks and giggled loudly as he tugged her impatiently along the narrow footpath. "You're blushing!" she exclaimed, in complete delight.

"I most certainly am not!" he vehemently denied, and she laughed harder.

"Oh Sherlock," she sighed as she gasped for breath, and then took his hand in hers as they continued along the route back to the hotel, "what am I to do with a man that can command the attention of an entire room by the simple fact of him having entered it?" He squeezed her hand gently and replied,

"You just continue to keep me honest, Molly, and always remember that although I may 'command' it, you are the one that illuminates a room whenever you're in it, and my eyes will be only ever be seeking you out."

Molly beamed with joy and then he smirked as he noted something else making her eyes glint. He laughed as she hugged his arm with her tiny hand, his claddagh ring glinting on the small hand that kept a firm and determined hold on his large one, all the way back to their room. They didn't say much on the rest of the walk, but the tension between them mounted, as it was wont to do when they were alone. Sherlock's thumb gently stroked the centre of her palm, because he knew exactly what effect that had on her. It was the greatest of games, he thought, the seduction of Molly Hooper, and one he never seemed to tire of. He hardened in anticipation of their coming together again and tugged her firmly to his side.

Molly felt anticipation burning through her. She couldn't believe how much she always wanted Sherlock; was always ready for him, especially lately. When they weren't making love, she was almost always thinking about it; a fact which of course, he was well aware of. He just had to give her 'that look' and she was ready to fall into his arms. She had never responded to any previous lover like she did with him, she thought, and she couldn't even comprehend being without him now; she didn't want to.

As he swept her into his arms in the lift to their room, she wondered briefly if he intended to propose to her soon. He had intimated as much in Virginia but there had been no mention of it since. Her last coherent thought was that she would dearly love to be his wife. He licked and kissed along her jawline and she shuddered and gripped him tightly by his shoulders. As the lift door opened he swept her, literally, off her feet and into his arms as he shouldered the door of their room open. He set her down on their bed and smiled enigmatically at her.

"You're thinking too loudly Molly, it's very distracting. I'm taking your clothes off now."

Heat pooled at her centre at his throaty words and she gasped as he slowly began undressing her, kissing every inch of skin he exposed. She sighed out his name and he grinned as he made his way back up her body until he reached her lips again. She slipped her tongue inside his mouth and she loved the shudder she felt running through him. Her hand strayed down to his prominent erection and she rubbed the long length of him through the fabric that contained it. Sherlock groaned and stilled her wayward hand with his. He yanked the rest of their clothing away and covered her body with his. He inched slowly inside her wet folds and she sighed and moaned as he buried himself deeply inside her.

She wrapped her legs tightly around him as he began slow, firm thrusts inside her, bringing her close to completion before stopping and drawing out the torture for her. She raked her nails down his back and pleaded with him to go faster. "Please Sherlock!" she moaned and he stilled, increasing her torment.

"Please what, Molly?" he drawled and she nipped his neck in revenge. He chuckled deeply.

"Patience, darling," he whispered, but she thrust up into him and ran her tongue along his broad neck, sucking hard at his pulse point and marking him there. He leaned up on his arms, so he could push deeper, finally relenting and giving her what they both wanted, as he thrust hard and fast into her in perfectly synchronised rhythm with her bodies motion. She called out his name as she convulsed around him and he exploded with pleasure inside her, pulsing over and over into her core. He sank down onto her body as she wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him, his weight almost crushing her, but she didn't care and gripped him as he made to move off her. She stroked and kissed him and murmured her love to him as he began to fall asleep in her arms. Molly felt totally at peace as she curled around him and nodded off herself.

Later that afternoon, both couples spent a leisurely and pleasant afternoon just walking the small town, exploring its myriad of artisan craft shops. They stopped at their leisure in the comfy café's with home baked cakes and pastries and smiling, friendly staff; all of whom made a welcome fuss of them as they recognised Aoife and then the others by default. Mycroft could hardly keep his eyes off his beautiful Irish woman and she frequently caught him and smiled knowingly, and licked her lips subconsciously, making his groin clench tightly, which he steadfastly ignored. He wanted to drag her back to bed but he had things to do.

He spent some time on his phone, organising the cliff-top ceremony for her brother for the next morning. He secretly contacted her parents, and closest friends, all of whom were very touched and assured him that they would not miss it. Their hotel was on board for a private lunch afterwards, and the local Parish Priest was very happy to perform the ceremony for them. He told Mycroft that he'd been a young curate at the time of Oisin Quinn's death on the peninsula cliffs and remembered it very well. He reminisced with Mycroft that it was very unfortunate that everyone considered the death of the young man as a tragic suicide; refusing to listen to his grief stricken twin; refusing to consider that it may have been a murder committed by another child. It had just seemed too farfetched. They knew better now. He commented that it would give a sense of atonement to the locals, to have the ceremony on the cliffs, because they now felt that they had maligned the young man by the coroner's verdict at the time. Mycroft ended the call, satisfied that things would be in order for the morning.

The two couples decided to stop off for a drink in one of the rustic and ancient pubs before they set back to the hotel, and they had just settled down into a snug with their drinks when a grinning Michael burst through the door, proclaiming loudly "Where's the English?" to the amusement of the barman who nodded in their direction. Sherlock burst into a smile and jumped up to greet his friend; stopping dead when he realised he was about to embrace him. Michael laughed boisterously and ignoring his hesitation, grabbed him in a bear hug. Sherlock features relaxed into a broad grin and he hugged him back, slapping his shoulders too. Aoife and Molly smiled conspiratorially at each other before Aoife jumped up to hug her close friend. Michael scanned her features and nodded, as if satisfied, and then turned and shook Mycroft's hand. An entire language passed between the two men in what wasn't said. Michael was a man slow to trust but he was beginning to fully trust Mycroft Holmes where Aoife was concerned. Mycroft Holmes, he thought, might just be worthy of her, because he was aware of his plans for the morning.

The hours flew by and soon they were collecting their violins from Michael's car and settling into O'Flaherty's Bar; ordering the freshly caught seafood for dinner and tucking in as the resident Irish musicians tuned up and the bar began to fill. By 20:00 it was packed, and their party appeared to be the centre of interest. Sherlock raised en enquiring brow at Michael. "They're here to hear us play Sherlock," he explained. "I'm an unbeaten Irish champion fiddle player; and you're Sherlock Holmes, the famous genius detective and violin player; and you're English. You really think the locals are going to stay home?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and laughed and then looked thoughtfully at his friend.

"Let's not compete tonight, Michael. Let's you and I duet, and raise the roof." Michael went to protest, because he was a born competitor, but stopped short at the wisdom in his friends eyes.

"Perfect harmony, English?"

"Exactly, mó chara."

Molly looked to Aoife for translation, and gulped as she saw Aoife's eyes watering. Aoife reached over and took her hand.

"It means 'my friend'." She said softly, and nobody teased her for the quiver in her voice. Sherlock stood, his violin in one hand, and reached a long arm towards Michael with the other, pulling him out of his seat.

"Shall we?"

Michael nodded, picked up his violin and the two walked across the floor to the band. The room fell silent and then the clamoring began, as the two discussed their musical choices with the other musicians. They tuned up for a few minutes and then the two men rose in unison, standing side by side with violins under chin, and the room fell silent. I very female wolf-whistle broke that silence and the room erupted with laughter. Sherlock and Michael turned to look at each other, grinned, and began to play.


	29. Epilogue

Epilogue

Molly woke early the next morning, wincing slightly with the discovery of a mild headache and a raging thirst, and she smiled ruefully. She may have overindulged just a little on the white wine front the night before. She stretched and sighed quietly and happily, unwilling to disturb Sherlock, who was sleeping deeply and quietly beside her. She slid out of their bed and threaded noiselessly into the bathroom, her toes curling into the thick pile woollen carpet. As she went through her morning ritual and then brushed her teeth, her mind slipped to the night before, and to Sherlock and Michael 'bringing down the house' with their music. They'd played for hours, with frequent stops for refreshment of the Guinness variety. Their audience had loved it; appreciating the undoubted skills of the two men and their intuitive rapport, their effortless synchronicity, as they elicited a musical odyssey from their instruments. Their music had evoked every emotion, from joy to plaintive sorrow, mischief to merriment, and it had swept their enraptured audience along with them through every nuance. It had been a very special evening.

She grabbed Sherlock's Irish rugby jersey out of her case and pulled it over her otherwise naked body. Grabbing a bottle of water from their fridge she stood greeting the new day at the floor to ceiling bay window of their suite; glorying in the stunning vista of Dingle Bay and the sea glistening in the early Spring sunlight. She gasped and then laughed as two strong arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her firmly off the ground, and then purred appreciatively as a lush mouth trailed firm kisses down the length of the back of her neck. She lifted one of Sherlock's hands to her mouth, kissing it gently as she nestled closer to him.

"You, Dr Hooper, have a lot to make up for after last night."

Molly rolled her eyes and swallowed back a giggle. Sherlock had honed the ability to sound petulant and sexy at the same time down to a fine art and the inevitable heat swept through her.

"Is that right; how so?" she enquired innocently.

"Well," he responded, "if you recall, last night in the bar, you promised to ravage me as soon as we got home; you performed a rather delectable, if a tad heavy footed, striptease as soon as the hotel door was locked, but, and here's the kicker Molly, when I came out of the bathroom, you were fast asleep."

Molly wriggled around to face him and he dropped her to her feet, but kept a firm hold of her hips, a teasing smile hovering over his lips. Smiling up at him, she reached up to stroke his face.

"And when, exactly, did I promise to ravage you? I don't recall saying that..." Sherlock smirked down at her as he gripped her hand and kissed her fingers.

"Every time you looked at me, and let's be honest Molly, you looked at me rather a lot."

Molly's eyes danced with laughter as she gazed up at him. She trailed her finger up along his bare chest and pretended to look repentant.

"You're right, my darling. That was a terrible thing to do. What can I do to make it up to you?"

Sherlock pretended to be actively considering it while he ran his hands under the hem of what was, technically his rugby shirt; although he had no intention of reclaiming it. He knew it's emotional significance to Molly. When his hand reached her bare backside his eyes popped with delight. He tugged the shirt up over her hips.

"Arms up Molly..." Molly's heart leapt at the familiar demand and she raised her arms languidly over her head, locking her eyes lovingly on his. He pulled the shirt over her head and smoothed her hair back in place with his long fingers. Then he grasped her head in his hands.

"You can start by kissing me," he demanded.

A knowing smile hovered on her lips as she whispered, with a catch in her voice, "you're too tall..."

He smiled in recollection of one of their earliest encounters, in Aoife's house. Gripping her hips tightly, he growled, "then get up here, Molly.

He lifted her effortlessly up and pressed her tightly against him as she wrapped her legs firmly around his waist. She clamped her lips on his mouth and did exactly as he'd directed, kissing him as if her life depended on it; as he carried her to their bed and felt himself harden in the inevitable response to this woman of his. He knew they had about two hours before they had to go to the memorial ceremony for Oisin Quinn; but as she surged up against him as he sank into her intoxicating heat, and she met him thrust for thrust, he wondered if a lifetime with her would be enough.

Exactly two hours later, the cortege of black Land Rovers left the hotel to make the short journey to the Slea Head Cliffside. The front and rear cars contained their armed security; their presence was non-negotiable to Mycroft Holmes. Nothing was going to happen to Aoife or her family on his watch and he was aware that word of this event had spread throughout Ireland, and further afield. Anyway, he smiled to himself, she wasn't the only VIP that would be in attendance. The Taoiseach had contacted him earlier that morning to tell him he'd managed to free up his diary, "well, it's for Aoife," he'd stated simply, and that was that. Her parents were behind them in the next car, and Sherlock and Molly behind them.

He sat beside a sombre and pensive Aoife. Even at her most solemn, she was staggeringly beautiful. She had refused to wear black, opting for a bespoke emerald green dress and matching fitted woollen coat, with high healed wedged black boots. Her hair fell in a glossy copper curtain around her shoulders and down her back. She turned to look across at him and then reached across and took his hand in hers. She twinned her slim fingers through his and squeezed his hand. She gazed at him, eyes glistening.

"Stay beside me?" She asked, quiet voiced and he squeezed her hand back gently, and then rolled his eyes in his signature look, and coaxed a smile from her.

"I have no intention of leaving your side, Aoife Quinn," he smiled at her then, and in a perfect Irish accent, he gently followed with "do ya know nothing?" and she spluttered out an indignant giggle.

"I know I bloody love you, Mycroft Holmes."

He kissed the back of her hand and told her that he loved her too, and wondered, for the umpteenth time, how he had got this lucky.

His phone rang with the particular pre-programmed tone of his senior agent and he listened to him in growing incredulity and then, as the cars began to slow down, he saw it for himself. Hundreds of people; men, women and young adults, were making their way, by foot, to the Cliffside. For as far as the eye could see, people were moving along the narrow national road in a slow procession, and they were still two miles away from the site. The people of Kerry, of Ireland, had come out in droves to honour Aoife and her murdered twin. A people compelled to pay their respects to the woman at his side. The woman who had provided tens of thousands of jobs, that had not made even one person redundant, even though the country had been plunged into an economic crash.

They knew that Aoife Quinn, unlike so many others, had not risked their jobs with reckless borrowing and overleverage that had been so disastrous and had decimated the other economic sectors. In fact, her company had helped to drag them out of the terrible recession and hold their heads up high throughout. That, and her national loyalty, her diplomacy in dealing with contentious issues in the North of Ireland, forging ever stronger relationships that had united the Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland and the British establishment in a peaceful understanding and agreement. Her tenacity in her battle with the Moriaritys, and her long fight for justice for her brother's murder had reinforced their respect for this daughter of Ireland, this modern day Warrior Queen who was a part of their DNA.

So they came. Through the fields, out of their houses, off buses and trains from further afield, and some of them had been travelling for hours.

The cortege ground to a halt and his security detail disembarked from their cars, shrugging helpless shoulders at Mycroft. Garda outriders roared up to their cars; their motorbikes the only vehicles with any chance of getting through the crowds. Mycroft's face blanched. This was a security nightmare. Aoife gaped at the scene, froze for a long minute and tears welled in her eyes, but she quickly gathered herself and recovered. Noticing the taut concern on Mycroft's face she smiled at him and shook her head.

"These are my people, Mycroft and they are doing what the Irish do. They are showing their respect. I…, we, are in no danger here. Come on my love, we're walking from here." He stared at her and his mighty brain just could barely compute what was happening, could not control what was happening, and he shook his head and laughed out loud. She was right. There was no danger here. He had no factual evidence to support what he knew in his guts to be true. Nobody would dare to harm a hair on her head, because these incredible people simply would not allow it. He would not allow it. His brother would not allow it. Michael would not allow it.

The Gardaí were already taking the wreath from the boot of one of their cars and putting it on the back of a Garda motorbike. Michael roared up behind them on a high powered motorcycle, in full black swat team regalia, and as Sherlock and Molly reached them, he moved rear guard, while the uniformed outriders took both sides and Mycroft's agents stood discreetly aside but were never more than ten feet away from any of them. The thunderous sound of a helicopter flying overhead, flying steadily and then swept over the people and on towards the cliff, the Government insignia, the golden harp, emblazoned on its side. A low murmur echoed through the crowds, still walking determinedly forwards. Their Taoiseach had arrived.

The young bodhran player from the night before, stepped out of the crowd and nodded at Aoife and then standing in front of them, began drumming a slow tribal beat as he escorted the chief mourners. The people were almost silent as they walked down the country road. Even the younger ones were happy to listen to the drumming and were sensitive to the atmosphere; to the sounds of seabirds screeching overhead, the shuffling foot-threads of many hundreds of people, and somewhere, an uilleann pipe's plaintive evocative sound picked up and accompanied the drummer.

Mycroft felt his brother give him a not to gentle punch in the back and smothered a grin. Sherlock had known he was floundering, of course he had and had done it to earth him again. He heard his deep gravelly chuckle, so completely inappropriately perfect, as he exclaimed loudly "Mikey, we are so buying a house here. Get on it, will you, for heaven's sake! You're taking ages!" There was a shocked silence and then Michael and Aoife spluttered with laughter. Her parents began to laugh beside them. Molly's horrified giggle could be heard next and then the Garda bikers joined in and on it went in a wave of laughter through the crowds. He could feel the tension pouring out of Aoife and consequently, out of himself, and Mycroft thought that he'd never loved his bloody brother more. So he turned and looked him in the eyes and conveyed it without words and his younger brother gave him his trademark smirk and nodded at him as his pathologist hugged his arm.

As they arrived at the fateful clifftop the people made way to let them through. The Priest awaited them at his makeshift plinth and smiled at Aoife and her parents. The musicians had gathered behind him and the Taoiseach nodded respectfully to the Quinn's and the Holmes brothers; encompassing Molly and Michael in his gaze. Mycroft nodded back. Aoife squeezed his hand once more and then releasing it, she walked forward to embrace the canny, kindly politician, and he hugged her tightly back. She walked back to him and took his hand again. Then the Priest cleared his throat and began the Mass.

Even the notoriously unpredictable west of Ireland weather had stayed kind to them today, Mycroft thought, as his eyes once again swept over the stark and stunning beauty of the high cliffs, the sea was bright blue, reflecting the sky and the sun glistened on the majestic Blasket Islands just a mile or so offshore, as the final notes of the dignified and poignant ceremony ceased. After the Mass, Aoife's father had brought long and steady claps of appreciation from the crowd with his eulogy to his son and his expression of deep gratitude to the people for the respect they had shown his family. They honoured him; they humbled him, he told them and his voice broke more than once in the telling. Then Aoife took the wreath and walked to the cliff edge and it was all Mycroft could do not to leap forward and drag her back. She stared out to sea for a long moment and then she threw the wreath over the cliff and it disappeared from sight. She turned and looked at the crowds of people and smiled over them and nodded her head with gratitude at their astonishing display of respect and support. Then her eyes settled on Mycroft and she walked steadily and gracefully into his open arms. A loud applause rang through the crowd and she laughed into his chest but refused to move. He gripped her tightly and gave a tight smile and nod to the people himself, and they seemed to understand and began to leave, with the same spirit of comradery with which they'd arrived.

They flew back to the hotel with the Taoiseach and enjoyed a boisterous lunch. Sherlock was antsy though. It was time for he and Molly to leave; time for them to be alone together in Aoife's house in Wicklow. They'd both longed for it, dreamt about it throughout their long separation, and enough was enough. A promise was a promise. He'd arranged for their stuff to be packed into one of Aoife's Land Rovers. He'd arranged for the house to be stocked up with supplies, arranged for yellow roses to be throughout the house to greet her, because he knew Molly loved them; arranged for her Harve Lager dress to be waiting on their bed, and arranged something else too, smiling at the special delivery from London that morning, more specifically, from his very enthusiastic and emotional Mother. He tugged her hand as she chatted to Aoife in the restaurant and she looked up at him and read him with just a glance.

"We're going now Aoife," she said, a little catch in her voice, "thank you for your house, for everything. We'll see you soon in London." She hugged her hard, hugged Mycroft and Michael, and then she took Sherlock's hand and walked out of the hotel, and he kissed her softly and lovingly at the hotel entrance. Then he led her to the car and into their future; together.


End file.
